


30 Seconds Later

by shayera



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: 30 seconds AU, Demonic Abuse, Demonic Possession, Family Feels, Gen, Pancakes, Paranoid Ford, What-If, learning to be family again, martyr complex and/or suicidal ideation, time displacement, twin paradox
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-17
Updated: 2018-09-29
Packaged: 2019-03-20 10:14:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 71,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13715520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shayera/pseuds/shayera
Summary: Stanford falls through the portal in 1982, but is pulled back almost immediately. Stanley, meanwhile, struggles for 30 years to bring his brother back. Neither is reunited with the brother they expect.





	1. The Portal

Stanford Pines fell backwards into the blue light.

He sunk into it flailing, screaming for his brother, trying desperately to grab on to something, anything at all. All he succeeded in doing was dislodging his glasses, turning Stanley’s distraught face below him into a blur before he passed through the barrier and reality was gone.

On the other side was… nothing.

He’d expected _something_. This was the realm that had driven Fiddleford to despair in just a few seconds. He’d expected _Bill_ , taunting him. But no, there was no light, no sound, no smell, no gravity to pull at him and telling him which way was up or down. Nothing.

Somehow that scared him even more.

He curled up on himself, trying to breathe, trying to let the texture of his own clothes convince him that he was still real, but his hands were numb. He tried to scream, but no sound came.

He was alone in the void.

No, not alone. Something was _watching_.

Then the weakest of lights appeared, a circle of pale blue, a beacon in the darkness, and he almost wanted to cry in relief. The light came closer, stronger, swallowing him like a pebble in a pond.

Like a man in a portal.

Stanford found himself stumbling, his feet hitting the solid floor of his own basement laboratory with a little too much force, every ache and pain of his battered and sleep-deprieved body hitting him at once. He wobbled and fell to his knees, felt the hard concrete floor under his hands, breathed like he’d never tasted air before.

Stanley. Stanley must have turned the portal back on. He should chew his brother out for it – the portal should never ever be activated, much less twice within a few minutes, and he was more convinced of its danger than ever – but he was too flooded with relief to even lift his head.

He could hear Stanley’s voice, but it seemed too far away to make out the words. That was probably not good. He still had to convince him to hide the last journal, and he had to – had to...

Oh no.

His eyes were drooping. The result of panic-induced adrenaline wearing off, no doubt. Another cup of coffee and he’d be fine. He could absolutely not pass out right now, not in front of Stanley, not while Bill could still possess him the moment he dropped his guard.

“Brother!” Stanley’s voice cried out, heavy footsteps coming towards him.

Stanford tried to look up, but the room was nothing but blurry shapes. For some reason Stanley seemed to be wearing black, even though he’d been in a red jacket earlier. That didn’t make sense.

Damn. He needed to rest and catch his thoughts. Just close his eyes for a few moments and—

 

* * *

“The author of the journals!?” Dipper was practically squeaking the words, staring with wide eyes at the man who’d just stumbled through the portal. The stranger wobbled for a moment, then sagged to his knees, his gaze fixed on his own hands curling on the concrete floor. Six-fingered hands.

Mabel stared too, not sure what to do, but she was more stuck on the second part of her grunkle’s summaric explanation. “He’s your brother? Grunkle Stan...” She wasn’t going to start doubting him now, but the stranger didn’t look nearly old enough to be Stan’s brother. He definitely looked a bit like Stan, but maybe like a young version of Stan, assuming Stan hadn’t always been old and crotchety. He also looked terrible. His brown hair was stringy and unwashed, his beige coat fell in dirty folds around the stained white button-up shirt and haphazardly tied black tie he wore. His pale face was unshaven and looked deathly tired, black rings around his eyes making him look a bit like a panda, at least one that had been staying up for way too many nights. “Grunkle Stan, what happened to him?”

“I’ll tell you in a moment, sweetie,” Stan said, for once not even looking at her – his eyes were fixed on the man in front of the faded portal even as he picked himself up from the floor and made a gesture of dusting himself off. He looked nervous, like he’d been waiting for this moment, but now that it had come he wasn’t sure what to do. “Brother?” he addressed the stranger, taking a few steps closer to him. Mabel would have followed, but it felt like she’d be intruding.

The stranger neither replied nor looked up. He seemed tense. Maybe he was scared?

“Brother!” Stan tried again, increasing speed as the stranger finally raised his face, confusion in his bloodshot eyes, before his eyelids fell and his entire body folded under him. He crumbled on his side on the hard floor.

Stan gasped something that might have been a curse. He was there in a second, kneeling and cradling the man’s head and shoulders in his lap. “Please,” he said, like he’d never claimed that word caused him physical pain. “Come on, don’t do this, please.” He felt around for a pulse on the man’s throat, then sagged in relief. “I can’t believe this, _I can’t believe this_...”

Mabel felt Dipper’s hand in hers, a silent acknowledgement that he still had her back whatever happened, despite yelling at her a minute ago to stop trusting their grunkle. She squeezed his hand back, then tugged slightly at him to get closer to Stan and the man he had summoned.

Stan didn’t seem to see them at all. He kept murmuring incredulous words, staring at the unconscious man in his lap, and Mabel thought she could see his shoulders shake, like he was trying and not quite succeeding to hold back sobs.

“Mr Pines?” Soos asked, approaching from the other direction. “Do you need any help with that?”

Stan opened his mouth to say something, but before he could make a sound, the stranger’s eyes snapped open again. The younger man’s face split into an uncomfortably wide grin as he looked up at Stan. “Well well well well well. It’s good to be back _here_.”

Stan started. “Ford! Are you okay? Are you—?”

The man scoffed. “I have to say it took you knucklehead long enough to get my portal up and running again.” Mabel felt goosebumps forming on her arms – there was something jarring and uncomfortably familiar with the stranger’s tone. Dipper’s hand clenched almost painfully around hers. “But this should do nicely! I’ll just pick up something I need and you can go back to your catastrophic failure of a life knowing that the only worthwhile thing you’ve ever done was to cause the end of the world.”

Stan flinched like he’d been hit by something, too stunned to react as the stranger lurched to his feet, swaying slightly while regaining his balance and looking around intently. “Defective meatbag eyes,” he muttered. “Oh joy.”

Mabel could tell that what she was seeing wasn’t right – and not just because _no one_ talked to her grunkle like that – but it was Dipper’s utter terror that cinched it. He was clinging to her arm with both hands now, practically hyperventilating as he whispered the confirmation of her suspicions. “Bill.”

That could _not_ have been who grunkle Stan wanted. Mabel might not know the full scope of what was going on, but she wasn’t about to take Bill messing with a family member quietly. “Hold it right there, mister!” she cried, pointing at the stranger, making sure her voice was loud enough to make everyone in the chamber look at her. “You leave grunkle Stan’s brother alone, or I’ll _tickle_ you again!” She’d do it, too. This guy may be an adult, but he looked about as weak and sleepless as Dipper had been last time she confronted the demon.

Dipper cleared his throat and added, “Yeah, you leave us alone, Bill!”

“Wait, what?” Stan’s voice was cracking with confusion. “Kids, no!” He scrambled to his feet, but then hesitated, looking from the Mabel and Dipper to the man who was supposed to be his brother.

The stranger turned around and approached the twins, tilting his head and staring at them with that same unwavering grin. By now Mabel could see the subtle but unmistakable yellow tint of his eyes, and the way the black of his pupils stretched in an unnatural way. There was absolutely no doubt about it – this guy was possessed by Bill just like Dipper had been.

“Oh, that’s precious,” Bill chirped. “I’ll tell you what, Shooting Star! You help me find the rift in this gloom and I’ll give you a world of instant wish fulfillment! How’s that for a deal?” He reached out a hand as if he really thought Mabel would take it.

The twins replied by wordlessly throwing themselves at him. Mabel had expected the man to be unsteady on his feet and taken by surprise, hopefully enough to get him to fall on the floor when tackled. Instead he stayed standing and struggled against them. His arms flailed, and the next moment there was a thud as his elbow hit the side of Dipper’s face, hard. Mabel heard more than saw her brother lose his grip on Bill’s host and fall bonelessly to the floor.

Mabel didn’t have time to react before grunkle Stan was there, catching the stranger by the collar and forcibly turning him around. She let go of her grip around his waist and backed away, glancing at Dipper who had curled up on his side, groaning and rubbing his cheek.

“What the heck do you think you’re doing!” grunkle Stan roared. “I swear to god, if you hurt your own nephew, I’m gonna—”

“Oh, you won’t hurt me, Stanley,” Bill said, his grin back in place. “You’ve spent thirty years on this. Getting your brother back at any cost, wasn’t it? Well, here I am!”

Stan shook his brother’s body by the collar, but seemed at a loss for words to reply with. “Soos!” he barked instead, “See to Dipper!”

“Grunkle Stan!” Mabel cried. “That’s not him! That’s not who you think it is!”

Stan kept his eyes locked on his brother’s face. “How would you know?”

“I know because we’ve met him before! It’s a demon named Bill who can possess people and he’s the same one who hurt Dipper and made him act strange when I was doing my puppet show, and I’m sorry we didn’t tell you about it then!”

Stan’s eyes widened slightly.

“I trusted you,” she added. “Now please trust me – that’s not your brother.”

“Heh.” Stan’s mouth twisted into the merest hint of a smile. “In that case—" He lifted Bill’s host off the ground, took two steps to the side, and slammed the man’s back against the fallen portal frame. “—you’re gonna let go of my brother now, monster! He’s got problems with me, he’ll take them up with me on his own!”

Bill laughed. It was a creepy, inhuman laughter coming out of a pale but very human face, echoing in the large room until Mabel wanted to cover her ears. “I see how it is,” he said eventually, raising his arms in an exaggerated shrug. “It doesn’t matter. The deed is done and I’m not in that much of a hurry! I’ll be back later to collect my prize.” He leaned his head forward as much as he could against Stan’s grip. “Your brother hates you, you know.” At that, his eyes fell closed.

A moment later he blinked them open again, the supernatural sheen gone. He looked nothing but confused and scared. His eyes widened at the sight of Stan’s tight face in front of him.

“D-Dad?”

 

* * *

Stanford realized immediately that he’d done more than just close his eyes for a moment. He was no longer on the floor in front of the portal, and that could only mean that Bill had been there. He’d failed again to keep him away and there was no telling what he’d—

His thoughts came to a halt as his blurry vision started to make out the face of the person holding him against a wall by the collar. The red fez, the black suit, the glasses and squared jaw and clenched teeth—

“D-Dad?”

It couldn’t be. It didn’t make sense. Filbrick Pines couldn’t be here. Ford had called for Stanley’s help, not his father’s, never ever his father’s. But he was here, and furious, and Ford was a child again, reflexively steeling himself for what was coming.

The hands on his collar pulled back like he’d burned them. “What, no! No, no, no!”

Ford blinked again. “No?”

“It’s me, Sixer. Your brother. It’s been a while, but I finally got you back.”

“Stanley?” It was clearly Stanley’s voice. Stanley _was_ the one person that should have been in the portal room right now. Ford blinked, and indeed, the face before him didn’t look that much like Filbrick after all. At the same time, it most certainly wasn’t the same Stanley he’d been fighting with with mere minutes ago. “When did you get so—” Grey? Wrinkled? Dressed up like Filbrick? “—old?”

Stanley huffed something that might have been a sob and might have been a chuckle. “In the past thirty years, Poindexter.”

“Thirty years?” That was preposterous. The void beyond the portal had been terrifying, but he couldn’t have spent more than a minute there, probably less.

Stanley took a deep breath. “But you haven’t aged a day, have you?”

“Why would I? You got me out again almost immediately!”

The old Stanley took a step back, his features blurring further, and pinched the bridge of his nose. He murmured something that Ford couldn’t make out.

This had to be a trick of some kind. A trap. It was Bill’s doing, a strange vision to torment him. It might be a dream or – or even a parallel universe of some kind, if the portal really did open up to other dimensions as Bill had originally claimed – but it couldn’t be what it seemed to be. It was impossible.

Or was it? There were so many things he didn’t understand about his own portal. He didn’t know what to believe. He wasn’t sure he could trust his own senses. Could Stanley really have spent decades figuring out the workings of Ford’s – Bill’s – invention? If the portal hadn’t held up perfectly enough to be able to turn back on immediately, wouldn’t Stanley have abandoned him for lost? None of this made sense.

He finally remembered he should have an extra pair of glasses in a coat pocket. They were still there. It was a relief when the world came back into focus.

He realized the portal room looked like it had just weathered an earthquake – which could mean the gravity anomalies had been especially violent when the portal opened. The portal itself had fallen on its side, half broken. It wouldn’t open again any time soon, which was just as well. Unless the damage had already been done. If the gap between nightmares and reality was already breached, everything he’d suffered to prevent would have been futile. _Cute, even_ , Bill had called it.

Indeed, if thirty years had really condensed to thirty seconds on the other side of the portal, the specific act of pulling him back might have caused intense anomalies that he hadn’t even anticipated in the fabric of space-time. He needed to make calculations, he needed to find out what happened, he needed to—

He pulled a hand through his hair and suddenly discovered that he was trembling violently.

“Sixer, it’s okay,” Stanley said. It was unclear whether he tried to convince Stanford or himself. “I guess this must all be a bit of a shock, but you’ll be okay, I promise.”

Ford looked up and realized the old Stanley’s arms were spread in a gesture he barely recognized before he found himself captured in an unexpected embrace. He flinched, knowing that he was still caught between a half-stranger and a wall, but Stan kept talking, a steady murmur close to Ford’s ear.

“It’s okay, Stanford. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for pushing you into that damned portal thirty years ago, and I’m sorry for taking so long getting you back, but I’m just so glad you’re okay. I’m so glad you’re okay.”

Ford found himself relaxing slightly into his brother’s arms, getting the trembles under control, but not enough to drop his guard again. Seconds passed, and Stanley’s arms were warm and strong, but his hair was a light gray under their father’s fez. He sounded so sincere, and part of Ford wanted to believe him, but another part of him refused to believe anything.

“Stanley,” he said finally, grasping at a straw that might hold some answers. “What happened after I came out of the portal? Did I attack you?”

“Nah, not really,” Stan said, still holding him tight. “More like you tried to throw what little weight you have around and I stopped it.”

“Oh.” Yes, maybe Ford had given up on boxing after high school, and maybe he wasn’t in the best physical shape after being unable to let himself sleep for weeks, but it was just like Stanley to pick on him for it. That confirmed that Bill had possessed him, at least. “Did I… Did say something?”

Stanley winced slightly, which was as good as a ‘yes’. “That doesn’t matter,” he said, though. “It wasn’t really you anyway, was it?”

Stanford took a deep, shaky breath. “No, it wasn’t,” he admitted. How much did this old Stanley know about Bill?

“Don’t worry about it.”

“How could I not?” Ford finally found it in him to push against Stanley’s hug, and to his surprise Stan let him go immediately, stepping back. “This could be the end of the world! You have to tell me – did he gloat? Did he make threats? What did he say?”

Stanley broke eye contact. “He... did say something about the end of the world.”

Ford pressed his back against the portal frame, raising his arms in a frustrated gesture. “I knew it! This is a disaster! Opening the portal once was bad enough, but the energy discharge you’ve unleashed to do this much damage just to the lab – and the time-space implications of pulling me through to a point in time thirty years later—” Ford’s voice was growing until he was almost yelling. “What have you done, Stanley?”

“Calm down, Poindexter.” Stan’s mouth narrowed to a line. “I saved your life, didn’t I? I was hoping you’d appreciate that.”

“I—” Ford stopped. “Yes, you did.” The thought of being lost in that void forever came to him unbidden, and he shuddered. “You did. And I do appreciate that. But you shouldn’t have done it! This could mean the death of billions!” He glanced up at the ceiling. “Maybe it’s already started.”

Stanley crossed his arms and frowned. “I don’t think so,” he said seriously. “Look, the demon in your head said he was looking for something down here, and he didn’t find it before he left. Said he’d be back later. So whatever end-of-the-world scenario we’re talking about is probably going to wait a bit. Maybe we can do something about it before that.”

There was still time. Ford wasn’t quite sure what “time” even meant right now, but if Bill didn’t have what he wanted yet there must be something he could do. Figure out exactly what had happened and what Bill was looking for. Don’t let him into his mind, and definitely not into the lab. Find a spell to banish him. There had to be—

Stanford almost jumped when a child’s voice piped up. “Hi! Mabel here. If you’re done hugging and being possessed by demons maybe we could take a moment and introduce us? I’m Mabel, I’m twelve and I’ve got a pig! This is my twin brother Dipper and this is Soos!”

There were two children with a clear sibling resemblance standing some distance off to Ford’s left. The girl wore a friendly smile and a knit sweater, and the boy was sporting a reddening bruise on his cheek. Behind them was a chubby gopher-like young man with a large question mark printed on his t-shirt. Ford silently cursed himself for not taking notice of them before, even as he turned to Stanley again. “You didn’t tell me there were children down here!”

“They’re family, Poindexter. Mabel and Dipper are Shermie’s grandkids.”

Twelve-year-old grandkids. Shermie’s _son_ was twelve. No, that wasn’t right, Shermie’s son had been twelve thirty years ago. The math checked out. Somehow that was even more dizzying than Stanley’s apparent age. It had been _thirty years_.

The girl – Mabel – caught him staring in confusion and stepped forward with a hand outstretched to shake. Ford reflexively hid his own hands behind his back. “I—I don’t do handshakes,” he excused himself. She didn’t seem to be possessed, but he had no means to check thoroughly, and even if it was safe, shaking hands left a bad taste in his mouth.

Mabel changed her gesture into a wave instead. “That’s okay. Hi!”

“Um, hi,” the boy with the bruise – Dipper? – added, eyes flickering suspiciously between Stanford and Stanley.

“Uh. Greetings. I’m Stanford Pines.”

Dipper grimaced. “About that...”

Ford interrupted him, turning back to Stanley. “Are there any more people I should know about? Does anyone else know about this?”

Stanley’s eyes flickered to the side. “Nope. Just us.” He grimaced. “And possibly the entire US government.”

“What!?” Stanford felt his knees wobble. If the government knew about his experiments, they’d lock him up. He could already hear the demon’s laughter in the back of his mind. “How could you?”

“Look, it’s not like I told them anything.” Stanley scratched the back of his head. “They got suspicious, I got arrested this morning, I escaped from a holding cell about half an hour ago to get here. The end.”

“That’s not the end of anything!”

“He’s got a point, Mr Pines,” the young man whose name Ford hadn’t caught spoke up. “I don’t think those government doods are gonna just leave us alone.”

“And who are you?” Stanford spun around, mind reeling. “Are you also some kind of nephew?” Stanley hadn’t said so, but why else would he be here?

The man laughed good-naturedly. “No, dood, I’m Soos. I’m like, Mr Pines Junior.”

Stanley sputtered incoherently at that, but he didn’t offer any articulate denial. Ford didn’t know what to think, so his mind whirled back to the problem he’d raised, glancing around for information. The protective window to the control room was still intact, and beyond it he could see people moving on the flickering surveillance screens. He ran over there, Stanley and the others following his lead.

Black uniforms. Weapons. He registered vaguely that the yard and the rooms monitored by the camera looked uncannily unfamiliar, but the fact that his house was swarming with enemies took first priority. Maybe he could distract them somehow through the broadcasting system—

Stanley was rubbing the bridge of his nose again. “I know what you’re thinking, Poindexter. I messed up again.”

“Yes, you did.”

“Look, they haven’t found the entrance to the basement yet, otherwise they’d already be here. All we gotta do is to figure out a way to convince them to forget about this whole thing.”

Dipper started. “ _Forget_ about—” He bent down and rummaged through his backpack to produce something Ford had hoped never to see again. “Maybe we could use this.”

Fiddleford’s memory gun.

“How did you get a hold of one of these...?" Ford flinched as Dipper held it out towards him, even though his hand wasn’t even close to the trigger. Was the boy part of the cult? Forgetting your troubles wasn’t the answer, and even a child should know better. Was Stanley in on that, too?

Dipper ignored his question and looked from Ford to Stanley. “I was thinking we could use it to wipe the memories of this whole case from those agents,” he said. “There’s only one gun, and we’d have to get them all before they call for backup, but I think it’s possible!”

“Of course!” Ford snapped his fingers, then grabbed the gun from the boy’s hands. “I could amplify the gun’s signal through the broadcasting system and get all of them at once!” He hurried through the door to the control room and tried to ignore his unease about the whole situation. The control room looked older, partially dusty, partially worn, partially even refurbished, but it was still his creation and he knew his way around it. There was one problem here that he could solve, and the rest of the problems would have to wait.

The government agents visible on the monitors never knew what hit them. They stumbled for a moment as the signal went through, then looked around in confusion, unable to recall what they’d been doing. Ford pocketed the gun under his coat before turning back to the others with a sigh.

 “So...” Stanley said with an uncertain gesture, “Did you just literally make them forget everything they know about what’s going on here?”

“Yes.”

“Huh.” Stanley’s reaction made Ford less inclined to believe he was part of Fiddleford’s cult, but he was less sure about the boy. “In that case,” Stan continued, “Someone oughta get up there and give them a reasonable explanation before they start making things up themselves.” He took off towards the elevator without looking back. “I’ll be back in a minute,” he promised.

Stanford found himself slumping back in the nearby office chair. It looked old, but it wasn’t one of his own chairs. The worn leather seat was unfamiliar and cold. On the monitor showing the porch, he could see Stanley gathering the agents and giving them some kind of talk. That, at least, was a Stanley that Ford could recognize – he’d always been good at spinning a tale.

Dipper had run off back to the portal room, but Ford could feel Mabel and Soos’ eyes on him even as he refused to look at them. It made his skin crawl. He was aware he was jittery, he was in severe need of more coffee, and meeting new people – _relatives_ – had not been something he’d expected today. Or ever. Whenever ‘today’ was. They shouldn’t be here in the first place – how could Stanley have dragged children into this?

He most certainly didn’t trust them.

“Boop.”

Ford almost fall backwards, chair and all, when he felt the girl’s finger on his face. “What-! What are you doing! Don’t touch me!”

The girl pulled back her hand. “I didn’t mean to scare you. You just looked so sad.”

“I’m not sad.” Worried and anxious and more than a little bit terrified, but not sad.

“Anyway, grunkle Stan said you’re his brother, so I guess that means you’re our great uncle, too.”

“Yes, I guess so.”

“But then there’s some time travel stuff going on, and you look way too young to be a grunkle, so would it be okay if I just called you ‘uncle’?” She pursed her lips. “Maybe ‘younkle’?”

“Uh.” He did not want to have to consider the logistics of this. Was it even real? Was it permanent? Did it matter at all what Shermie’s grandchildren called him?

They were both distracted by Dipper’s return from the portal room. He was clutching a red, leather-bound book tightly against his chest. “Great uncle… uh… Stanford?” he said, not quite meeting Ford’s eyes. “Are you really the author of the journals?” He held out the book and Ford saw the unmistakable golden imprint of his own six-fingered hand with the number 1 written in the center on the front cover.

 _Damn_. He snatched it from the boy without stopping to think. Journal number 1, the one he’d tried to get Stanley to hide. It was old and worn, too, like everything else. The pages were more yellow than he remembered, and it looked like it’d been thumbed through countless times. Flipping through it, he stopped on a page of portal schematics. Stanley had never hidden this after all. He’d kept it, trying to figure out how the portal worked on his own. Looking back at the work desk, he finally noticed that there were two more volumes lying upturned on the pages that contained the activation codes for the portal – the final step that would have required all three journals. Stanley had found them. He must have found the warnings, too, but he’d recklessly ignored them.

“I wrote this, yes,” Ford admitted, not sure what else to say.

He didn’t need to say anything else, because those words were enough to make the boy bounce on his feet and launch into a high-pitched squee. The girl patted him on the back.

The boy’s wide grin made Ford uncomfortable. He didn’t trust this Dipper at all.

“You’re the author I can’t believe it!” Dipper gasped once his squee ran out of air. “I’ve been living with these journals all summer, especially the third one, following in your footsteps and meeting all these creatures and weird stuff and I’ve got so many questions—”

There was a part of Ford that wanted to take pride in someone reading and enjoying his work, but he knew better. His work was a menace. “You should never have read them!” he exclaimed, jerking to his feet. “I wanted them hidden away!”

“Right,” Stanley’s gruff voice said, returning from upstairs and approaching quickly from the elevator. “You can ask him all you like about the journals later, Dipper. I think both me and my brother have a bunch of more important stuff to explain right now.”

Dipper whirled towards him. “Grunkle Stan! If he’s your brother, how can you both be named ‘Stanford’?”

 _What_? The question made Ford’s stomach twist. That was wrong, this was all wrong. Visions of time loops trickery and possibilities where the old man before him wasn’t Stanley at all but some twisted version of himself swam before his eyes. Had he actually called himself Stanley? Had Ford just assumed? He should know better than to trust an assumption.

“Yeah, well, that’s one of the things I was talking about.” The man supposed to be Stanley took a deep breath. “The short version is that I accidentally pushed Stanford here into that portal thirty years ago and then I took his name and identity so that I could stay in his house and try to figure out a way to bring him back.” The succinct explanation was poured out in a single breath before he snapped his jaws shut as if awaiting judgement.

“Wait, you took my name? For thirty years?” Ford wasn’t sure if that was better or worse than what he'd imagined.

“Yeah.” He turned to the kids. “My real name’s Stanley.” He crossed his arms and looked at the ceiling. “I lied to everyone. The government, the cops, the townsfolk. Even my family. Even you kids. I’m sorry.”

No one said anything for several uncomfortable seconds.

“Story time!” Mabel exclaimed.


	2. Explanations

Stan was pretty sure his heart had been beating like a sledgehammer ever since he’d escaped from the police station, and that was probably not healthy. But right now Mabel looked at him like she didn’t care he’d been lying and only looked forward to hearing what else he had to say, Dipper looked more thoughtful than hostile, and the government agents were dealt with easier than he could have imagined. And Ford was – Ford was _here_. He was here and alive, and that was all that mattered.

Looking at his family and knowing what kind of day they’d had, Stan figured he wasn’t the only one who wanted to sit down – he wasn’t about to host a Question and Answer session standing around in the basement laboratory. “Come on, let’s go upstairs.”

Stan didn’t miss how Ford picked up one of the Journals from the work desk and hid it in his coat before following. Fair enough. They were Ford’s, and Stan was done with them. He might never need to look at them again, and wasn’t that a novel thought?

He tried to keep it somewhat discreet, but he couldn’t stop looking at Ford. He couldn’t help it. Ford was _here_. He was real and solid and alive and – so, so young. Had Stan really been that young the last time he saw him? Had he _ever_ been that young?

He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but it hadn’t been this. Not the exact same twitchy, hollow-eyed mess of a 30-year-old brother he’d lost all those years ago. Not to be mistaken for his own father in his brother’s eyes. Frankly, the demon might have been the _least_ shocking part.

But... It was good. Just because the thought of being twice the age of his own twin made Stan’s guts churn didn’t mean it wasn’t a good thing. This meant that Ford had never had to suffer through these thirty years in some kind of sci-fi hellhole after all. Nothing had happened to him whatsoever, and that realization was finally starting to sink in. Every time over the years that Stan had wondered and worried what his brother was doing – turns out the answer was nothing. He didn’t even exist again until now.

He was relieved. Of course he was.

Not that Ford looked well – he looked exactly like he’d had thirty years ago. Terrified, half-starved and sleep-deprived. Stan had been through that brief encounter with his brother endlessly in his mind over the years. Ford’s haunted eyes, his strange behavior, his single-minded obliviousness that still hurt to think about. The way he’d basically asked Stan to hide evidence for him, no explanations forthcoming.

Well, whatever literal demons Ford had been dealing with back then, Stan hadn’t been of much help, had he? But this time would be different. Even if Ford really did still hate him. He’d do better this time.

Ford made a wordless noise of surprise at the sight of the gift shop once they emerged from the secret doorway. The way he tensed up made Stan worry for a moment that his brother was going to bolt and disappear into the woods or something, but touching him lightly on his arm made him turn back to Stan. His face was tight and he didn’t say anything, but he did follow the rest of them to the kitchen.

The kids took their seats by the table, and Stan sent Soos to get a couple of extra chairs before starting to rummage through the cupboard for five mugs. They could all use a hot drink.

Ford remained at Stan’s side, fingers tapping nervously on the counter. “What have you done to my house?” he asked, his voice low but teetering on hysteria.

Stan looked at Ford, a mug in hand. “I’ve lived here for thirty years.” He’d tell the story, but only once all of them were gathered around the table. He took a deep breath. “Ya want coffee?”

Ford’s eyes darted around, not meeting Stan’s, probably trying to take in all the details of the house that used to be his. Technically still was. Stan could barely remember what the kitchen had looked like when he arrived, but he figured it’d been dark and cold like the whole place had been. It was probably better now, despite the stuffed wolf head on the fridge and the occasional dead possum.

“Stanley,” Ford said tightly. “Listen. When we fought, I – I burned you. Did it heal?”

Stan blinked. That was unexpected. “Yeah, sure, eventually,” he replied. “As well as can be expected, anyway.” He couldn’t quite remember how long it had taken before it had stopped stinging altogether – maybe a year? – but he’d figured he’d deserved it at the time. And it was ancient history now.

“Show me the scar.”

Stan frowned. “Why?”

“Just do it!” Ford crossed his arms. He seemed to be trying to look commanding, but he still seemed more frightened than anything else. That in itself convinced Stan.

“Fine. Come here.” He ushered Ford along back to the living room, passing Soos with the chairs in the doorway. “We’ll be right back,” he assured him and the kids. Stan might be willing to show his so-called tattoo to reassure his brother, but he didn’t feel like having to show the kids at the same time. Not with how obnoxious Dipper had been about it earlier this summer.

Ford was studying him warily as he removed the suit jacket and put it on the hanger, and, after a moment’s consideration, the fez as well. If it made him look more like their father to Ford, he might as well not wear it tonight. Turning his back to his brother, he pulled his undershirt aside over his right shoulder blade. “There. Happy?”

Ford made a half-choked sound, followed by several moments of silence. Stan winced when he felt a cold finger touch one of the indented lines on his back, but Ford pulled it back almost immediately.

“I’m sorry.” It was barely more than a whisper. “I never meant to—” A weight landed on Stan’s shoulder as Ford rested his forehead against it, covering Stan’s peripheral vision with dirty brown hair.

Um. “S’okay.” He touched the top of his brother’s head awkwardly, unsure how to react. “Of course you didn’t mean it. We both did stuff we didn’t mean to do.” _Like pushing you screaming into a hole in reality._

Ford mumbled something Stan couldn’t make out, then raised his head. Stan turned around. “What was that?”

“It’s really _you_.” Ford’s eyes flickered over Stan’s face, then seemed to make a conscious effort to make eye contact. Despite looking deathly tired, Ford’s gaze was uncomfortably intense.

Stan shrugged, more casual than he felt. “Afraid so.”

“You’re – you’re sixty years old.”

“Sixty-one, actually. It’s august. You’ve been gone for thirty years, five months and two weeks.” He grimaced weakly. “Not that I was counting.”

Ford nodded. Stan wasn’t sure what else to say, so instead he gave his young twin a pat on the back and led him back to the kitchen.

“So, coffee?”

“Yes, indeed,” Ford agreed, stopping by the coffeemaker. “I can make my own.”

Stan scoffed slightly. “Sit down, Poindexter.” He pointed to the nearest chair. “I just opened your transuniversal portal – I’m perfectly capable of making coffee.”

“I—” Ford stopped, hesitating, then sat down as instructed. “Black, as strong as you can make it.”

“Yeah, I figured you’d say that.” Frankly, Stan should probably give him decaf. Ford looked like he was dead on his feet and already going on too much caffeine and too little anything else. But at the same time, there had been some kind of a demon possessing him the moment he collapsed earlier, and that was most likely related to the creepy ‘can’t sleep!’ notes that had turned out to litter his journals in invisible ink. Altogether, it would probably be safer if Ford didn’t fall asleep until after he’d explained what that was all about.

In the end Stan made two mugs of coffee – black for Ford and milk and sugar for himself – and three mugs of hot chocolate for the kids and Soos. While waiting for the water to boil he went to check the fridge. “Anyone hungry?”

“Yes!” Mabel replied immediately, raising her hand. “Dipper and I haven’t eaten since all that ice cream this morning!”

Stan rolled his eyes. “Really? Didn’t those government agents feed you at all?” They’d fed Stan at the police station, though to be honest he hadn’t had much of an appetite.

“We kind of ran away from them before they had a chance,” Dipper said.

“Ah.” They were good kids, but they should still eat. “Well, it seems we have three leftover wraps. Will you survive until tomorrow on one each?”

Mabel confirmed that they would.

“Ford?”

His brother had put the journal on the table – it seemed to be number 3 – and was busy flipping through it, frowning at whatever he saw. “What?” he said to Stan, looking up.

“I’ve got a wrap here with your name on it. Don’t tell me you’re not hungry – you look like you haven’t eaten in thirty years.”

His genius brother blinked stupidly at him. “That’s hardly fair.”

“Just take it, Poindexter.” He handed out the food items, then the beverages. “I’ll make you pancakes in the morning, too.”

The table was a bit cramped with five of them around it, but not uncomfortable. Ford swallowed a good part of his coffee immediately, then nibbled on his wrap. The kids started munching on theirs in a more reasonable way, and Soos looked happy with his chocolate.

Stan took a sip of his own coffee, then sighed. If he was going to tell Soos and the kids about what happened thirty years ago, he might as well do it properly. He’d have to back up a bit further than that in order to have it make sense, but he wasn’t sure where to start. Coming clear was much more difficult than throwing smoke and mirrors. He was itching to ask Ford – and the kids too – about the demon, but that was probably _not_ the best place to start.

“Alright,” he said slowly. “So Ford and I are twins, just like you kids. I know it’s not obvious right now, but believe me, it used to be. I’m just gonna start this at the beginning, when Ford and I were kids in Glass Shard Beach, New Jersey, back in the sixties...”

 

* * *

Ford was surrounded by unknowns and could barely recognize his own house, but he needed to _think_. The coffee Stanley provided – the very same Stanley he’d fought with less than an hour and more than thirty years ago – was not quite as strong as Stanford had wished, but it helped. It made the drowsiness hiding behind his eyelids somewhat less likely to launch a successful surprise attack against him for the next few hours, and that was really all he could ask for.

Unfortunately, the food might have the opposite effect. It was easier to stay awake on an empty stomach, and yes, he might have overdone that a little, but he was fine for now and he had more important things to worry about than nourishment. Just because Stanley was old didn’t mean he had to act like their _mother_. Still, once Ford had fallen for the temptation to take a small bite, it was hard to stop. He made a vague attempt to remember the last time he actually ate, but it eluded him. He hoped he wasn’t going to be sick.

Stanford looked down at his journal as Stanley launched into a story of their childhood. Apparently he’d never told his relatives anything before, and Ford should feel something about that, but he didn’t. The state of the third journal got to him more – it used to be only half filled, but apparently Dipper has taken it upon himself to fill the blank part with his own notes, more or less modeled after Ford’s own. He threw a glare at the boy who had defiled his work, but now was not the time to go through that mess.

Instead he flipped to a page that was still blank and started sketching a diagram over the time-space event that he’d just been through, trying to put the numbers together proportionally in a way that made sense, while noting possible explanations and consequences in the margin. Apparently Bill had been looking for something. Was it not the portal itself but a side effect of its opening that posed a threat to reality? It took some willpower to make his hand steady enough to write, but he made do, using his other hand to alternate between coffee and food.

Ford caught Stanley telling his relatives – _their_ relatives, technically – about the Stan O’War, that old childhood dream that would never have come to anything even if Stanley hadn’t been brash enough to ruin both of their lives back in high school. He tried not to listen as Stanley got to the part about West Coast Tech and the science fair. Apparently he still claimed it was an accident, over four decades after the fact.

Ford found himself semi-consciously doodling, and soon enough a small boat that decidedly didn’t belong there was sailing across the notes. He closed his eyes and sighed, ready to scribble it out.

“Having fun, Sixer?”

The words came in a chorus from four different sources.

Ford flinched violently. He could feel his insides freezing even before he forced himself to look up, facing four manic grins and four pairs of yellow, slitted eyes.

“You’ve done great, you know!” Stanley and the others’ voices continued in chorus. “All you gotta do now is to sit back and enjoy the show.” They laughed, and Ford felt his fists clench until his nails were digging into his palms. Bill was toying with him. He couldn’t breathe.

Ford was standing before he realized he’d moved. “Get away from me!” he heard himself yell, but when he tried to turn and run there were hands around his arms, holding him in place, trapping him against the kitchen counter.

“Ford!” Stanley’s voice seemed to be reaching him through water. Ford struggled, refusing to look at the yellow sheen in his eyes. “ _Stanford_!”

“Leave me alone!” Ford screamed, but he sounded pathetic in his own ears. He was trapped between a possessed body and a counter, and he couldn’t move, and Bill’s laughter wouldn’t stop.

He should have expected this. No one can be trusted in Gravity Falls. Stanley had been his best bet because he came from elsewhere, but this Stanley had been a part of the town for thirty years and what could possibly have made Ford think Bill wouldn’t have gotten to him?

“Look at me, Sixer!”

He looked. The yellow was gone. Stanley’s face was close enough that he could see his pupils clearly, and they seemed perfectly normal, now.

“What happened?” Stanley sounded worried, but Ford couldn’t trust it. The children were looking at him with wide – but apparently normal – eyes, and the young man had gotten to his feet too, maybe to help if Ford has slipped out of Stanley’s grip.

“You looked like you just got attacked by a ghost, dood.”

“N-no. No ghosts.” Ford shook his head, and Stanley finally let go of him. He had a chance to run for it now, but he didn’t know where to go. The portal was still in this house, and whatever else Bill wanted was here, too. He had to stay, but Bill was everywhere. “It was nothing,” he lied unconvincingly. “I’m fine.” The journal lay closed on the table. He picked it up, holding it against his chest like a shield, but it didn’t help. Everyone’s eyes looked normal right now, but did that even mean anything?

“Any knucklehead can see that you’re not fine, Ford.”

Stanford didn’t reply. He was drowning in the implications of what he just saw. Bill was _everywhere_. Ford was alone, and he’d known that, so it shouldn’t hurt. He’d thought he didn’t have anything left to lose, but he could never have predicted this situation. It was summer. There was a knick-knack store in his house. Shermie had grandkids. Stanley was _old_. And Bill was still here, watching his every move.

He didn’t know what to do. It was going to be the end of the world, and he couldn’t stop it. Stanley kept talking, but it didn’t register above the unearthly laughter that was rising like a Shepard tone in Ford’s ears. He couldn’t stand it, but Stanley’s arm was around his back now, grounding him and keeping him there, and he couldn’t stop shaking.

He wanted to run. He wanted to _cry_.

Stanley was rubbing circles on his back. His eyes were normal and his voice was calm and apparently he was just telling Ford to breathe.

Breathing. He could do that. He _was_ doing that. Just a bit too fast, and maybe that was a problem. He tried to take a deeper breath, but it felt like he had to fight his own body for it.

“Easy.” Somehow, Stanley’s face looked even older than before. “It’s okay. Breathe. We’re your family. No one’s going to hurt you.”

Ford wanted to laugh bitterly at that, but he didn’t have the air. He tried breathing instead, as Stanley suggested. In and out.

Eventually Stanley seemed to be satisfied. “Are you with us again?”

“Yes.” Ford had never left. Stanley might have, though. And the others... Ford was suddenly acutely aware that three more people had witnessed his breakdown.

“I can tell them to leave, if you want to,” Stanley said, noticing where his eyes went. “I was hoping we could get all the storytelling done at once, but if you’re not up to it, we’ll do it some other time.”

“No. Yes. I don’t know.” Ford shook his head. “It probably doesn’t make a difference.” He sat down on his chair again, back stiff. They were all compromised. “Finish your story.”

Stanley sat down as well. “Actually,” he said, leaning against the table and turning to Ford by his side, “I don’t think anyone’s interested in my misadventures in the seventies after dad threw me out. I travelled a lot, did a bunch of stuff that was mostly illegal, used a bunch of fake ID:s to get around. Never managed to make any millions. Then out of the blue you sent me a postcard asking me to come here. So I did.”

Ford nodded.

“Think you’re up to telling us what happened to you between high school graduation and February 1982?”

Ford grabbed his mug and downed what was left of his coffee before replying. “What does it matter?”

“Come on.” Stanley rolled his eyes slightly. “It matters because the last time I saw you, you had sent me a cryptic postcard with no explanations after over a decade of radio silence, and when we met you were clearly freaking out and just wanted me to take one of your books and go away. And now you’re—”

“I wanted you to _hide_ it,” Ford interrupted. “And if you’d done that we wouldn’t be having this conversation now.”

“You’re right, we wouldn’t. We also wouldn’t have this conversation now if you’d just stopped to think that maybe it’d be a good idea to have a conversation _then_.”

“I did try to talk to you! You just wouldn’t listen!”

“ _I_ wouldn’t listen? You were rambling on about—” Stanley seemed to catch himself the moment before he launched into the same rant he’d had earlier. Right before Stanford had kicked him onto the red-hot console. Ford tightened his grip on the journal he was still holding. At least there was no hints of Bill in this. It was all his stubborn knucklehead brother.

Stanley pinched the bridge of his nose. “Look. Who cares who ruined whose life back in New Jersey – we were seventeen! The _point_ is, we got into a fist fight thirty years ago instead of talking. You kicked me into some kinda branding iron and I got so mad I didn’t notice I was pushing you too close to the portal until it was too late.” He threw up his arms. “And here we are. Your stupid brother figured out a transuniversal portal eventually, but I still don’t know what’s going on with _you_.”

“I—” Ford closed his mouth. He knew what he saw. And indeed, it seemed exceedingly unlikely that Stanley would have repaired and operated the portal all on his own. “I think you know.”

Stanley shook his head. “I know you went to some kind of crappy collage called Backupsmore and that you wrote an award-winning PhD thesis and got a research grant to study weird stuff here in Gravity Falls.” At Ford’s frown he added, “I did have to look through your paperwork.”

Ford didn’t say anything to that.

“I also know you lived in Gravity Falls for six and a half years without hardly ever talking to anyone.” Stanley grimaced. “At least that made it easy for me to take your place without anyone noticing.”

That part still made Ford’s stomach twist. Stanley had simply slotted himself into Ford’s place and no one had cared. And then he’d brought Ford back thirty years later – but why?

“And we all saw you possessed by some kind of demonic creature right after you came out of the portal.”

Ford’s teeth clenched. There was that.

“Look,” Stanley said, “We can’t help you if you don’t tell us what’s going on. What happened to you in Gravity Falls?”

Ford took a shaky breath. “I made terrible mistakes,” he said tersely. They had to already know. Why should he have to humiliate himself when Bill had already touched them?

Stanley sighed, but before he could say anything else, Dipper broke the silence.

“Great uncle Stanford?” Ford couldn’t read his expression, but at least he wasn’t grinning. “It was Bill, wasn’t it.” It wasn’t even uttered like a question.

Stanford tried to hide his flinch by leaning forward, putting the journal down on the table and fixing his eyes on the boy. “What is Bill to you?”

Dipper shrunk slightly from Ford’s gaze, but then he straightened his back. “An enemy,” he said confidently. A good answer, if it could only be trusted.

“Also a triangle and a demon and a big jerk,” Mabel added. She was making light of it. She was mocking him.

Ford drummed his fingers on the journal on the table. He wondered how much they would admit to. “Which one of you summoned him?” he demanded, looking at Mabel, Dipper and Soos in turn, before turning back to his brother. “Stanley?”

Stanley raised his hands disarmingly. “Don’t look at me! I’ve never summoned a demon in my life!” He paused, eyes widening like something was clicking in his mind. Like this was the first time such a thing had occurred to him. “Ford. You _summoned_ a _demon_.”

“I summoned an unknown creature from beyond our plane of reality!” Ford said, suddenly defensive even though there was nothing defensible about this. “All I wanted was knowledge!” Stanley’s eyes were still white and brown behind his glasses, as if Bill hadn’t ever been there.

“Alright,” Stanley said, rubbing his forehead. “You summoned this demon. That’s a start. I can see how that might lead to trouble.” Instead of questioning further, though, he frowned at the rest of his family. “Did any of _you_ summon a demon? Should I be concerned?”

“N-no!” Dipper said, too quickly.

“It was Gideon who summoned Bill,” Mabel said. Another stranger’s name. “But afterwards he kinda... stuck around and bothered Dipper, I guess.”

Well then. Ford looked at Dipper again. The boy was facing down, fidgeting with the mug in his hands. He couldn’t see what his eyes looked like anymore, but it wasn’t like Ford was afraid of the child. “You made a deal with him,” Ford said. It wasn’t a question. “You shook his hand.”

Dipper nodded, not denying it. “Yeah. And that was incredibly stupid, but to my defense I was sleep-deprived and very frustrated and not thinking clearly.” He glanced up and met Ford’s eyes for a moment. His sclera were still white. “No offence?”

There it was. Ford opened the journal again, finding another blank page, and started taking notes. Writing something down made it seem more tangible. Easier to combat. “What did you agree to?” he asked Dipper, surprising himself with a steady voice.

“He said he wanted a puppet. And since Mabel was putting on a puppet show that day I thought he meant one of her puppets.”

“But instead he possessed you.” Somehow his voice was still steady.

“Holy Moses, _Dipper_...” Stanley muttered, just loud enough for Ford to overhear.

Dipper grimaced. “Like I said. I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

“And how long did it last?”

“A few hours. I was exhausted anyway and Mabel basically tired him out and tickled him until... well, until my body collapsed and he left.” Dipper shrugged.

“But it was just _one_ puppet? And only for that one day?” That could hardly be the whole story.

Stanley interrupted him by leaning forward towards his nephew and niece and thumping his elbows down on the table. “Dipper, kiddo,” he said, ignoring Ford for a moment. “You were _hurt_ that day. That demon possessed you and _hurt_ you. He could have _killed_ you! Why didn’t you tell me what happened?”

“I didn’t want you to worry,” Dipper said, rubbing his left arm in a self-conscious way.

Stanford hadn’t noticed before, but there seemed to be large patches of yellowing bruises all over Dipper’s forearm and elbow. Possibly on his hand as well. Perhaps even more damning, his arm showed several series of four half-healed puncture wounds in a row.

Ford felt his eyes widen. He recognized that particular injury – he’d found a few very similar ones on his own body recently.

Somehow, irrationally, seeing that was a relief. Not that an innocent child had been hurt – but that the child _was_ innocent. Bill left marks like that when he wanted to threaten and antagonize, and that meant Dipper hadn’t been working with him willingly. It wasn’t much, but it was something. He kept writing, breathing a little bit easier.

“Look, kid,” Stanley was saying next to him. “I’m sorry for keeping so many secrets from you and your sister. But you may have noticed how that backfired spectacularly. You don’t still think I’m some kind of supervillain, do you?”

“No, of course not. I’m sorry for not trusting you, grunkle Stan. I was just—”

“You acted on the information you had, because that’s all you could do. Which is what I’m saying. Spectacular backfire. But right now—” he reached forward and put his hand on Dipper’s small shoulder “—I’m all out of secrets, and I’d like it to stay that way between us. I trust you. Both of you.” He looked from Dipper to Mabel and back. “Do you trust me, Dipper?”

Dipper took a deep breath. “Yeah, I do.”

“Good!” Stanley patted Dipper’s shoulder before leaning back again. “Then listen – if anything like that ever happens again, I want you to tell me immediately. I’ll punch that demon into the next dimension for ya. You don’t have to face anything like that alone, got it?”

Both kids nodded agreement. Mabel was a little faster, and the next moment she squeezed past the table and threw her arms around Stanley, who looked flustered and tried to claim that hugging was unnecessary – but he smiled. Dipper did, too.

Ford felt increasingly like he was watching something from another world, a place where he didn’t belong and never would. That was probably just the way it should be. It didn’t matter if they trusted each other, he still had to determine to what if any degree _he_ could rely on them. If it seemed too good to be true, it probably was. Perhaps there were lies or double meanings that he just couldn’t see. And Dipper had had that memory gun; it was still tucked away in Ford’s coat. Perhaps they’d used it – perhaps they weren’t even aware Bill had his claws in them.

“And you, Sixer,” Stanley said, pointing at Ford, “That goes for you too.”

Ford blinked. “What?”

Stanley sighed. “What I just said to the kids. You don’t have to face crap like this alone.”

Ford put down his pen and shook his head. “You’re going to punch Bill Cipher out of my head.” He was too tired to laugh. “That makes perfect sense.”

“If punching doesn’t work, we’ll figure something else out.” Stanley tried to shrug with Mabel wrapped around his shoulders. “You said this could mean the end of the world. Believe it or not, but I don’t actually want the world to end. That makes two very good reasons for me to want to help you.”

Ford frowned. “What’s the other reason?”

“You’re my brother.”

He said it so simply, like that was reason enough. Stanley had already betrayed Ford at least once, so clearly being brothers wasn’t enough even for him. Maybe he was trying to atone for past mistakes. Maybe he was just trying to make Ford lower his guard. Maybe it was working.

“ _Please_. Tell us what happened.”

“Stanley...” Ford swallowed. It shouldn’t matter. Bill knew about his mistakes anyway. He braided his fingers, fidgeting on top of the journal. “Fine.”

Everyone was quiet. They were expecting him to speak.

“Bill tricked me.” It was easier to say it than he’d expected. “And not just with a misleading choice of words,” he added, glancing at Dipper. “He was—I thought he was my friend.” He closed the journal and clutched it against his chest again. They didn’t need to know the details – the flattery, the intellectual curiosity, the way Bill had made him think he was _special_. “We were partners for almost two years. He helped me build the portal, making me believe it was a gateway to other worlds. It was meant to bring infinite opportunities for exploring the multiverse. He was lying.” Part of Ford wanted to close his eyes or look away, but he forced himself to keep looking straight ahead, keeping the others in his sight. He had to know if they changed.

“I trusted him—” Ford’s voice broke, but he was _not_ going to look down. “I trusted him to the point that I allowed him unlimited access to my body and mind.”

Dipper gasped. Stanley whistled softly.

“And yes, that deal is still in effect. Fortunately, he can’t simply push me aside while I’m fully conscious.” Something about that nagged at his mind, but he couldn’t quite place it. “But if I were to lose consciousness or fall asleep—” He let that sentence hang.

“So that’s why he possessed you in the portal room,” Dipper said.

Ford nodded. He’d been in shock, and he’d slipped up.

“So how did you figure out you’d been conned?” Stanley asked evenly.

Ford took a deep breath. “There was an accident when we tested the portal the first time. My research assistant was pulled in halfway through the portal and nearly lost his mind from what he saw there.” He still wasn’t sure what Fiddleford had seen. Perhaps Stanford been comparatively lucky beyond the portal. “Bill mocked me when I confronted him about it.”

Dipper and Mabel looked at each other as if they both had the same thought. “Your assistant,” Dipper said, turning back to Ford, “was that Fiddleford McGucket?”

“You know him?” Of course. They’d had a memory gun. He didn’t like to think that Fiddleford himself was still in Gravity Falls thirty years later, but the children and Soos all nodded.

Stanley didn’t. “We’re going to need to talk about that one later,” he said. “But go on, Ford.”

“I found out that the portal I created is the key to opening up the barrier between Bill’s plane of existence and ours, allowing him to enter this world physically. It would give him nigh-infinite power.” He paused, looking at Stanley. “I believed that opening the portal with a large enough energy surge would in itself allow this, but if that had been the case, you would have already given him what he wanted.”

“He said something about a ‘rift’,” Mabel volunteered.

“A rift?” Ford threw the journal open again and fumbled for his pen. “That’s it! A self-contained fissure could—” He started scribbling the equation that would make such a thing theoretically possible, then stopped himself. “I have to get back down there. _Now_.”


	3. The Rift

Stanford didn’t wait for approval or agreement before moving, only registering in the back of his mind that Stanley followed him. Knowing that there was something he could do – something he _had_ to do to stop the impending apocalypse – was a stronger energizer than the coffee. He was already back in the storage room before he even remembered that it wasn’t a storage room.

It was some kind of... business endeavor for selling knick-knacks. Ford’s equipment was all gone, replaced by shelves and racks of postcards and snow globes and cheap plastic skulls. The security door Ford had installed at the entrance to the basement – and he knew it was still there; they’d all emerged from it earlier – was covered by a vending machine for snacks. This should have been his house, but it wasn’t. It was unfamiliar territory.

How could he act when everything was _gone_?

He spun on his heels, making a wide gesture around the room. “Stanley! What is this?”

Stanley had stopped in the doorway between this – this travesty – and the living room. “It’s exactly what it looks like,” he said with a small grimace. “A gift shop to sell overpriced junk to gullible tourists.”

“But _why_?” Ford punched the vending machine with the side of his fist in frustration, making the contents inside rattle. It was too much and not enough and the helplessness was threatening to drown him. He didn’t even know how to get down to his own laboratory.

Stanley rubbed the back of his head. “I guess we never got to that part, but I’m kinda running a tourist trap here. It’s how I make money.”

“Why would you do that?” Ford’s hands kept gesturing around the room, too agitated to stand still. Some of the things used as decorations in the little shop were Stanford’s own specimen, old and worn, but even more of them were cheap imitations, obviously made of plastic or haphazardly put together from random animal body parts. He felt ashamed to even look at them. Was this all Stanley thought of his work?

“Why would I make money?” Stanley looked half worried, half exasperated. “Are you listening to yourself?”

“You needed to drag my work through the mud to make money?”

“Hey,” Stanley said, “I had to pay your mortgage somehow, and I didn’t have any fancy research grants to do it!”

Stanford flexed his fingers. “Okay,” he said, more to himself than to Stanley. It was vexing, but _fine_. It wasn’t even important. Not _now_. He put his hands away behind his back. “Where did you put my equipment?”

Stanley’s face softened, but he looked somewhat wary. “It’s been thirty years, Ford. I might have put a lot of things in a lot of places. What exactly is it you’re looking for?”

Ford hesitated. He needed something he could use to contain the rift without exposing it to the kind of kinetic shock that would cause it to expand. Pure silver might be a possibility, and there was a bit of that in the portal’s construction for that very purpose, but no. In fact, as far as he could predict, there was only one material that would both have the right properties and be readily available – and that depended on Stanley not having lost everything useful in Ford’s house while trying to ‘make money’. “I need a borosilicate jar.”

“A what now?

“Laboratory glassware! I need a sealable jar of thermally resistant glass.” He gestured with both hands at a rack of t-shirts with question marks printed on them. “I had a whole box of them right here!”

“Oh,” Stanley said, looking relieved. “That’s no problem. I’ve got plenty of glass jars. Soos!” He turned to the young man who was apparently either still in the kitchen or somewhere behind him in the living room. “Get us a glass jar from the workshop, willya? One of the more expensive ones that can take chemicals and stuff.”

“Yes, Mr Pines!”

Ford nodded reluctant acceptance. He didn’t have a choice in the circumstances – he just had to hope that Stanley’s material was up to it.

“And you kids,” Stanley continued as the children appeared next to him in the doorway, “You should go to bed.”

“But grunkle Stan!”

The way the young twins chorused the protest made Stanford flinch again, but they looked normal, if disappointed.

“No buts! We’re not gonna do any more storytelling tonight, and you’ve already had enough fun in the basement for one evening. Ford and I can handle this rift thing.”

Dipper was clicking a pen in his hand, looking like he was about to protest, but all he said was, “You will tell us all about it tomorrow, right?”

“I promised, didn’t I? No more secrets.”

Stanford clenched his fists behind his back again. That wasn’t Stanley’s decision to make. Ford wasn’t going to let Stanley see the rift, much less let him know where he’d hide it. He could trust himself as long as he stayed awake, but he didn’t know what Bill could see through Stanley’s eyes. It just wasn’t safe.

The children’s footsteps disappeared upstairs, and Ford started pacing the length of the ill-conceived gift shop. Soos returned with the jar before he had made two circuits. “Is this what you wanted, Mr—” He tried to give it to Stanley, who gestured at Ford. “—uh, younger Mr Pines?”

“Yes.” It was relatively small, less than a liter, but it should suffice. He scraped it with a nail, and it did seem to be the right quality. “Good. Now—” His gestured at the vending machine, not overtly willing it to open, but wishing that he could. He could only assume that the machine’s buttons were connected to the security door and that a certain combination would open it from the outside, but that was a combination he was not privy to.

“You go home to your abuelita,” Stanley was saying to his – whatever he was. His illegitimate son? “I bet she wonders where you’re at by now.” In any case Soos didn’t seem to be living in this house, unlike the grand nephew and niece, and Stanley was sending him away.

“You sure you don’t need any help fixing this hole in reality thing?”

“Nah. I think it’s not a hole in reality as much as something that could _become_ a hole in reality if you poke it too hard or something.” He looked back at Ford. “Am I right?”

“More or less,” Ford admitted.

“See? We’ll handle this.”

“Oh, okay.” Soos turned to wave at Ford. “Bye, dood. Nice meeting you.”

Ford found himself raising a hand in a hesitant wave as the young man saw himself out.

Stanley stretched his arms and breathed out. “There. I just—” He paused, looking Ford over, apparently on the verge of saying something, but let it go. “Nevermind.” He crossed his arms and Ford realized he was standing in front of a tapestry that he actually recognized. It was one of the pieces Ford had brought with him when he moved to Oregon, originally from their father’s old lodge.

“What’s the plan?” Stanley asked. “We pick up the presumed fracture in reality, put it in a glass jar, and lock it up somewhere?” He did not sound impressed. Ford shook his head to clear out the association.

“Because that’s fine,” his brother continued with a small grin, changing from Filbrick to 15-year-old Stanley in the blink of an eye. “I just wanna know that’s what we’re doing.”

Ford shook his head, resisting the familiar glint in his much too old brother’s eye. “ _We’re_ not going to do anything,” he said, pointing at Stanley with the hand that wasn’t holding the jar. “ _I’m_ going to go down there and secure the rift, and you’re going to forget about the whole thing.” He felt a small wave of trepidation when he realized that he could literally make that happen. He didn’t want to, but perhaps it would be the only way to be safe. He’d already used the memory gun once, although using it on enemy soldiers was not the same as using it on _Stanley_. Fiddleford would call him a hypocrite, and he’d be right – but it might be a matter of the fate of the world.

Stanley sighed softly. He looked down at his arms, then back up at Ford. “How about no.”

Ford took a small step backwards. “Just open the door to my basement!”

“Look at yourself, Poindexter!” Stanley made a helpless gesture. “You’re dead on your feet and you literally just told me that the moment you lose consciousness the demon that wants to end the world is gonna possess you. You’re not going anywhere alone right now.”

“I’m not going to lose consciousness,” Ford said coldly.

“You already did once.”

“That was an extreme circumstance! It won’t happen again.”

“Stanford...” Stanley pinched the bridge of his nose. “This is exactly what I was talking about. You need help and I want to help you. You just gotta _let_ me.”

“No, I don’t!” The response was almost reflexive. It was a trick. Bill was so close to getting what he wanted, but Stanford wouldn’t let him get any further.

“And why not?” Stanley’s face hardened. “Because I’m still your screw-up good-for-nothing brother and you can’t trust me? I’m _sorry_! But I’d think you’d cut me some slack after I saved your life from your own sorry invention!”

“That you pushed me into!”

“That you invented! With the help of a literal demon!”

“And what about you? Do you seriously expect me to believe that you repaired and operated the portal with no outside influences?”

“What do you—?” Stanley stopped, gaping. “Are you—accusing me—of—” He let his arms fall. “You really have no faith in me whatsoever, do you? The _stupid_ twin.” He came a couple of steps closer and pointed his finger at Ford’s chest. “Well, guess what? Give me thirty years and a good reason and even I can figure out your nerdy project! And that’s _without_ consulting with demons!”

Stanford was taken aback, startled by his own immediate urge to tell Stanley that he wasn’t stupid. He’d been unmotivated, for sure, and a bit scatterbrained, and certainly didn’t take to book learning the way Ford did. But not stupid. And if anything, fierce loyalty and dogged stubbornness to see things through had always been some of his admirable traits, at least until the WCT incident. _Could_ Stanley have taught himself the theoretical physics, advanced mathematics, practical chemistry, mechanical engineering with incorporation of alien technology needed to understand the portal on his own? Ford wasn’t sure, but neither was he sure he could dismiss the possibility.

Stanley’s eyes were still human. “I want to believe you,” Ford said.

“But?”

Stanford took a step backwards, then another one, glancing at the door behind him. He might make it outside if he had to run, but he was acutely aware there was nowhere to run to. The memory gun was weighing down the side of his coat. “But I know better.”

“Just like that? Your dumb brother couldn’t possibly have—"

“I saw Bill possess you back in the kitchen!” Ford interrupted.

Stanley blinked, then took a deep breath. “Stanford, no.”

“I know what I saw. Not just you – the rest of them as well. He’s got some kind of grip on you and you might not even be aware of it – maybe your memories were erased – but I _can’t_ trust you with this.” His free hand was almost steady as he pulled out the memory gun. He had no choice. He had to do this _now_. “You shouldn’t even know about the rift.”

Stanley tackled him before he finished setting the parameters on the gun. He fell on his back, painfully adding to existing bruises, with his much older twin on top of him. The glass jar shattered with a crash beside him, and the gun clattered out of reach of his other hand.

Ford panicked, twisting and almost managing to drag himself out from under his brother before he found himself straddled. He wrenched one arm free and tried to punch whatever body part was closest – Stanley’s stomach – but he had no leverage. The next moment Stanley had both his wrists pinned against the floor.

He was falling backwards through space again. His sight was blurring into nothing, or maybe he’s already closed his eyes. He’d made a mistake. He’d—

“Stanford! Don’t you dare black out! Stay with me!”

The voice was shouting at him right next to his face. Ford tried to blink away the tears that had somehow gathered in his eyes.

Stanley was breathing heavily right above him. “Are you still there? Sixer, _are you still there_?”

Ford tried to take a deep breath, but it broke into a shudder. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. He tried to get up, but Stanley still had his hands pinned. “I’m here.”

Stanley’s shoulders relaxed slightly. His eyes were human when they met Ford’s. “Good. Now _listen to me_. I know you’re a genius, but right now you’re not thinking straight.”

Ford didn’t have an answer to that.

“You said you saw Bill possess me in the kitchen? And the kids as well?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you also said Bill couldn’t possess you with no warning while you’re awake. Why wouldn’t that go for other people, too?”

“I don’t know, but—” He really didn’t know what Bill was capable of.

“You said that you allowed Bill unlimited access to your body and mind, didn’t you? Do you really think he’d have _more_ access than that to other people? To possess four people at once, in the middle of a conversation, without any of us even noticing?”

“I don’t—"

“Look, I had barely even heard of this demon before today, but I’m not trying to convince you of that. I can’t prove that. I’m just pointing out that you’re _making no sense_.”

“I’ve seen him do it before.”

“Before or after you stopped sleeping?”

Stanford closed his mouth.

Stanley exhaled slowly. “Exactly. Now, a quiz for ya: In your genius opinion, which is more likely – that Bill the demon went through all that trouble to con you over two years even though he can take over anyone’s mind at any time, or that you might be seeing things that aren’t there because you’re exhausted out of your skull?”

“I’m not hallucinating.” Was he? It had seemed real, at least as real as anything else. If he didn’t know, how could he trust _anything_?

“I wouldn’t know,” Stanley admitted. “How about this, then? He’s got access you your mind. You’re falling apart, and I’m willing to bet that’s exactly what he wants. He doesn’t want you to get help, so he’ll make sure you don’t trust anyone. What would be easier for him to do – to actually deal with everyone around you to be able to possess them, or to give you a little waking nightmare when you’re practically sleepwalking anyway?”

Was that possible? What if he’d closed his eyes for just a moment and Bill took the opportunity to make him jump at shadows? He remembered drawing the little boat, and then... He didn’t know, but Stanley was right. He’d simply not considered the possibility. “The latter – the latter would be easier,” he conceded.

“Thank you.” Stanley smiled in relief. “Now, if I let go, you’re not going to attack me again, are you?”

Stanford swallowed. “No.”

Stanley released Ford’s wrists and pushed himself up with a groan, stretching his back as he got up on his feet. “Ow,” he muttered.

Ford didn’t move for several moments. His thoughts were swirling with new possibilities. He still wasn’t sure. He didn’t know the limits of Bill’s capabilities. But Stanley was right – Bill _wanted_ him to be alone and helpless. And Stanley had cut through the inconsistencies that he hadn’t even been able to _see_. It felt like a relief at the same time as he wondered just how deeply Bill was able to trick him. It didn’t make him any less scared.

His brother offered him a hand to help him get up, and he took it without a word. He found himself swaying on his feet, hanging on to Stanley for an extra moment while riding out the vertigo.

“So,” Stanley said finally, “That rift, huh.”

Stanford looked at the shards on the floor. “You – we broke the jar.”

“That’s okay, I told you I’ve got plenty of jars.” Stanley gestured towards some other part of the house. “But tell me one thing first – are you absolutely sure this needs to be done tonight? I mean, there’s no one down there, the entrance is locked, and that rift isn’t going to explode or whatever on its own, is it?”

“I don’t actually know.” Ford shook his head. “I could try to make the calculations to predict how stable it would be in an open space, but I’m quite sure there’s a non-zero possibility of spontaneous expansion.”

“Right. In other words – yes, it might explode on its own.” Stanley shrugged. “Fair enough, we’ll do it now. But you’re not going alone, and I’m not hearing any more arguments about it.”

Ford nodded mutely. He hoped he was making the right decision. Reason told him that Stanley’s logic was sound, but that didn’t mean his guts weren’t twisting into knots. Stanley might be lying, like Bill, and how could he tell? But his chances were slim in the first place, and Bill wanted him to be alone and terrified. And Ford had wanted to trust Stanley when he sent that post card in the first place. But he couldn’t trust anyone.

His thoughts were still churning the matter as Stanley led the way to another part of the house where he seemed to have created some kind of laboratory of his own. Possibly more of a crafts shop than a laboratory, containing some very fanciful half-finished taxidermized creatures as well as samples of things that really shouldn’t be combined in formaldehyde. It made Ford uneasy, but he refused to think about it. It was irrelevant. Instead he picked a new jar that would suit the intended purpose and both of them went back to Stanley’s gift shop.

Ford winced when Stanley picked up the memory gun from the floor where they had left it, but his brother made no move to use it. “Better not leave it out in the open, right?” he said and tucked it under his arm as he went over to the vending machine.

He frowned before pressing the buttons. “Hey, Ford,” he said, turning to Ford who was standing right next to him. “Are you absolutely sure you want to see me enter the code?”

Ford narrowed his eyes. “It’s my own basement, Stanley.”

“And also mine. I think the legalities of the matter is a little blurry right now. Anyway, I was thinking – if you don’t know the access code, then Bill won’t either.” He shrugged apologetically. “But I’m gonna let you make that call. We’ll handle it either way.”

There was some sense in that. That was the idea behind Ford’s request to have his brother hide the first journal somewhere Ford himself couldn’t find it, after all. And if he _could_ trust Stanley—

But no. He couldn’t stand it. Ford’s control over any aspect of his life was already slipping precariously, and the thought of not even being allowed onto his own basement levels without supervision made him feel sick. There were things down there he wanted to check on. Equipment that might be usable. “No, I want to know the code,” he said.

“Right,” Stan said with a nod and pushed the buttons. The code turned out to be five digits, a simple ‘C’-shape. Easy to memorize. Soon enough they were descending by the elevator and emerging on the lowest level. Stanley left the memory gun on the work desk before proceeding to the portal room itself.

“It’s most likely somewhere in the open air,” Ford said, staying close to the entrance and slowly looking over the room. “It won’t be affected by gravity, so I don’t know if it’ll be closer to the floor or the ceiling. This might take a while.”

Stanley put a hand over his eyes in an exaggerated lookout pose. “Any idea what it’s supposed to look like?”

“You’ll know it when you see it,” Ford said, hoping fervently that it was true. “And whatever you do – _don’t touch it_.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

It did, indeed, take a while. Stanford had no way of telling how long given that he wasn’t wearing any sort of timepiece, and his sense of time was quite broken in at least two ways at the moment. But it certainly took long enough to be tedious. Knowing that carelessness could plausibly result in a collision that would rip reality apart didn’t make it go any faster. Having two people searching rather than one did speed it up a bit, though, and even if Ford found himself glancing nervously at Stanley more than once, he had to admit he was grateful – especially when Stanley was the one who finally found what they were looking for.

It was in the space behind the fallen frame of the portal, hanging in mid-air barely three meters above the floor. “That’s it, isn’t it?” Stanley said, looking up at it with arms crossed as Ford hurried over. “Can’t think of anything else it could be.”

“Neither can I,” Ford agreed. It seemed to defy description – a swirling, shapeless _thing_ the size of a small fist, made out of nothing at all. It was featurelessly black, but at the same time sparkling. Somehow, it was beautiful. He shook his head – it was a threat to all of reality and it had to be dealt with. “How do we get to it?”

“Well, I could hoist you up,” Stanley said. “But that wouldn’t be very stable and we don’t wanna accidentally smash it.”

“I did have a ladder down here. What happened to that?”

Stanley grimaced. “I haven’t used it in a while and I think it got buried under a bunch of other junk with all the gravity anomalies.”

“Well. It’s not _that_ high...”

“I’ve got a chair?” Stanley jerked his thumb in the direction of the control room. “I’ll go get it.”

As it turned out, a chair was all they needed. A kitchen chair might have been more convenient, but with Stanley holding the office chair still to prevent it from spinning or rolling, Stanford was reasonably secure as he climbed it and reached up to enclose the shifting, sparkling nothing with the jar. Sealing it with the lid, he slowly lowered the jar, vindicated when the rift adapted to its smaller enclosure and stayed in place relative to the jar rather than to the larger room.

“Done!” he said as he climbed back down from the chair. “I’ve got it!” He shook the jar from side to side, making Stanley jump.

“I thought you said it could explode if it got scrambled!”

“No, that’s why it’s in a glass jar,” Ford explained. “You see, the structure of the glass absorbs a certain amount of transdimensional energy. As long as we don’t break the glass, it should be quite safe to handle.”

“Ford,” Stanley said. “You’re smiling.”

Huh. He was. Why would he do that? Nothing had changed. He was still one step away from global disaster and he didn’t even—

“High six?”

Ford glanced at Stanley, who was raising a five-fingered hand. “Ah, nevermind,” Stanley said quickly. “That was stupid.”

Stanford set the jar down on the chair and raised his own hand. “High six.”

Stanley’s old and calloused hand slapped Ford’s, and somehow, maybe things _had_ changed.

 

“So, what do we do with that thing?” Stanley asked while dragging the chair back to the control room. Ford was holding the jar with the rift in both hands. “I used to have a safe, but it was kinda blown up recently. So I guess it wouldn’t have been all that secure in the first place.”

Ford looked down at the jar. “Are the hiding places I arranged for the second and third journals still operative?”

“Not a good idea.”

“Why not? Did you tell anyone about them?”

“ _I_ didn’t even find them. Dipper found one of them, and the other – well, it was another kid.”

“Oh.” They’d been compromised, then. There was no telling how many might know, and if they’d been discovered by children, they wouldn’t have been safe enough in the first place.

“If you just want to hide it, there’s a whole lot of places to put things out of sight right in this building. I could take it and—”

“No!” Ford twisted away with his whole body, cradling the jar. “Be careful. Don’t touch it.”

Stanley’s eyes narrowed. “Sixer,” he said. “If you’re going to start calling the possibly universe-destroying thing your _preciousss_ , I am going to question you.”

Ford blinked and turned back to his brother, surprised. “Since when do you make references to the Lord of the Rings?”

Stanley looked a bit embarrassed at that. “Since they made movies, and Soos made me watch them.”

“They made movies?” The difficulties involved in making Tolkien’s world adequately come to life in a motion picture would be considerable – the size difference between the hobbits and other creatures alone would be quite a challenge in live action. “Animated, I assume?” he guessed.

“Nope,” Stanley said. “Real actors and stuff. Very pretty, lots of nerd pandering. You’d love ‘em.”

“I bet I would.” Thirty years. _Tolkien movies_. Ford swallowed and allowed himself a moment to wonder what it would be like to not have a demon hanging over his head. To be able to sit down and watch a movie again. But he’d resigned himself to the fact that Bill was going to kill him sooner or later. The question was only if it’d happen in the apocalypse or if Bill would kill him in frustration after being thwarted. The latter was much preferable.

“Anyway,” Stanley was saying, “If the rift is safe from spontaneous explosion when it’s in a jar, we could probably leave it down here for tonight.” Stanley waved a hand at the work desk. “We can think up a more permanent solution later.”

Ford hesitated. On the one hand, Stanley was right that it would most likely be safe here for the moment – it was hidden away enough that no unknown element would be likely to tamper with it. On the other hand, he seriously doubted he’d be more capable of thinking up a permanent solution later. He knew that he was in a precarious state as it was, and whether or not Stanley was capable of helping him out in some ways, he’d still have a limited amount of time in him before his ability to stand against Bill ran out. He had to have a permanent solution before that.

If he could figure out the exact properties of the rift, maybe he could find a way to harmlessly drain it of its energy potential. Failing that, he’d take a chance at sealing it away permanently, encasing it in something that couldn’t be broken.

What if the alien adhesive from the UFO could do it?

“Sixer?”

Stanford jumped, looking back at his brother with startled eyes. “Yes. I’m sorry. I was thinking.”

“Reach any conclusions?”

“Maybe.” He put the jar down in the drawer under the desk, shutting it to hide the rift from view. “I’ll leave it here for now.” He started to head back to the elevator.

“I’m going to need more coffee,” he said as they headed up. “And maybe use the bathroom. But after that I’m going to borrow your car for a trip down the woods.”

Stanley looked at him like he’d just said something incredibly foolish. “No, you’re not.”

Ford was taken aback. “What? You claimed you were going to help me! Well, then do! You have a car, don’t you?”

“Of course, but you’re not gonna take it anywhere tonight.” He busied himself with opening the door to let them both back out into the gift shop, but as the vending machine clicked shut behind them, he turned to Ford again. “The rift is gonna last for a while where it is, right? So we’re not in a hurry.”

“I _am_ in a hurry. I’m trying to solve this while I still can!”

“Stanford.” Stanley looked stricken. “Hot Belgian Waffles.”

“What?”

“How long has it been since you discovered your demon friend was conning you?”

A non-sequitur, and one he wasn’t sure he could answer. “What’s today’s date? No, wait, that’s irrelevant. I don’t suppose you know—”

“The date you fell into the portal was February 24.”

“In that case, 37 days.”

“And how much have you slept in that time?”

“Entirely too much!” Ford’s fists clenched at his sides. The bruises and cuts covering most of his body proved it. The fact that the portal had been fueled and calibrated to start up so easily when they’d started brawling was another piece of evidence. If Stanley was trying to persuade him to give in to sleep when there was a rift that could open up their world to a nightmare realm sitting in the basement – after allowing Ford the passcode, no less – _he_ was the one not thinking clearly.

Stanley sighed. “You need rest, Poindexter. I told you I was gonna help, and I will. Just stop assuming you have to do this alone.”

Ford blinked at him.

“Actually,” Stanley said, throwing an arm around Ford’s shoulders, “Bathroom is a great idea. I think there’s an unopened pack of toothbrushes in the back of the cabinet. Use that. And you should probably take a shower too, if you’re at all up to it. I’ll prepare the bed.”

Stanford found himself half-pushed back into the main part of the house. “But I _can’t_!” he protested. “You could change the code to the basement and it still wouldn’t be safe! You’ve got _children_ sleeping in the house, Stanley! Do you know what Bill could do to them?”

“Bathroom.” Stanley opened the door to Ford’s bathroom and all but shoved him in, like he was a small child. “Towels are over there, toothbrushes and toothpaste in the cabinet, there should be soap and shampoo in the shower. I’ll see if I can find some pajamas for you, too.”

“Stanley!” Ford grabbed Stanley’s undershirt with both fists before his brother had a chance to close the door. “Stop this ridiculous charade! You _know_ I can’t sleep!”

Stanley gave him a sly grin. “I bet you can if I handcuff you to the bed.”


	4. Sleep

When Ford closed the bathroom door and turned the lock without another word, Stan could only hope he’d gotten through to him. He found himself leaning back against the wall next to the door and rubbing his temples. Ford was a wreck, that was for sure. But he’d fix that. If only he could have seen it and done something right thirty years ago—

He’d been a bit of a wreck himself thirty years ago. But that was no excuse.

Stan shook his head and pushed himself away from the wall, taking off towards the bedroom. Ford would be alright this time, he’d see to it. Ford was so – so goddamn _young_. He had all the reason in the world to get through this.

He figured it’d be easiest to give Ford Stan’s own bed for the night. Stan pulled his own sheets and pillowcases off and hid them in the closet before spreading some new linen on the bed – not necessarily neatly, but at least they were clean.

A selection of his brother’s old clothes was in a laundry basket in the corner next to the stove – he’d taken them out of storage and washed them last night when the kids were at the Northwest party. At the time it had been a nervous measure just in case – in case they still fit, and in case his brother needed something to wear temporarily. As it turned out, these were still the clothes Ford expected to own, so it was probably a good thing not all of them were still buried in mothballs. Included was a pair of plaid pajamas, which Stan threw on the bed.

And then there was the demon containment measure. Stan actually owned three pairs of police handcuffs, tucked away in different drawers, though only one of the pairs had its original key. He checked that the key still worked, then put that pair of cuffs on the bed too.

Looking around, Stan grimaced at the mess. Ford wasn’t in any position to judge, of course, and there really wasn’t any point in trying to tidy up, but it’d be best if the demon couldn’t get his hands on anything dangerous from the bed. He moved the bedside table off to the side, then did a circuit around the bed to take away any and all trash – Pitt cans, used napkins, a paperclip, a cracked cup – sheesh – from within reach, before he figured he was done.

When Ford emerged from the bathroom some twenty minutes after closing the door Stan was waiting for him. He’d picked up an issue of _Gold Chains for Old Men_ that was lying around, flipping through it and wondering when in the world he’d ended up in that particular target demographic. Seeing Ford made Stan jump and conspicuously drop the magazine face down on the floor, though Ford didn’t seem to notice or care.

In fact, Ford didn’t seem to notice much at all. He remained unmoving in the doorway for several seconds, one hand on the doorframe for balance, eyes unfocused. He’d put his dirty clothes back on, even the coat, although he’d skipped the tie. The shirt was buttoned up all the way to his chin, and his hair was dripping wet. He hadn’t shaved, and he was still deathly pale, but his face was sort of ruddy from the hot water. Stan supposed the fact that he’d used hot water at all and not tried to shower cold was probably confirmation enough that he’d decided to accept the offer of sleep – which was good, because that one wasn’t negotiable.

“Alright,” Ford said eventually and straightened his back with visible effort. “Let’s do this.”

Stan nodded and motioned towards the bedroom, ready to step in and grab him if he started to fall over, though it didn't turn out to be necessary. He still echoed Ford’s soft sigh of relief when they reached the bedroom and Ford sat down on the bed, allowing his shoulders to sag.

Stan threw the pajamas over his brother’s head. “Wanna change out of that outfit?”

Ford pulled it down into his lap and seemed to consider it, then shook his head. “Let’s just get this over with,” he said. “You tie me to the bed and I sleep while Bill is unable to move around.” His eyes flicked to Stan. “And you’ll release me again in the morning.”

“That’s the plan, yeah.” Stan showed him the handcuffs. “I figure that if I cuff one of your wrists to the middle rail of the headboard—” He pointed, “—you’ll still be able to turn in your sleep and whatnot, but Bill won’t be able to go anywhere with you. Sounds good enough?”

Ford didn’t reply except to offer his left wrist for Stan to cuff. When Stan touched his hand, it was trembling.

Stan took a deep breath. “At least take off your coat first,” he reminded his young twin. “There’s blankets if you’re cold.”

Ford nodded and shrugged the coat off, letting it fall in a heap next to the bed.

“And your shoes.” Stan couldn’t believe he was saying this.

There was a hint of a tired smile in Ford’s face – apparently he couldn’t believe it either. He did take his shoes off, then offered his wrist again. The smile disappeared in favor of cold determination. The kind of determination he wouldn’t need if he wasn’t scared.

“You do know that it’s okay, right? I’m not gonna leave you hanging.”

“I know.”

“I’ll be back to check in on you later,” Stan promised. “Or him, as the case may be. And if you need something, just yell.”

“If he talks to you, don’t listen,” Ford said. “Just – don’t.”

“I figured as much.” Bill had already talked to him through Ford once, by the portal, and that had been painful enough. He knew what was going on, now. He casually slid the cuff securely shut around Ford’s wrist. “Now lie down.”

Ford took a deep breath and put his head down on the pillow, his left arm raised to allow Stan to fasten the other cuff to the vertical headboard bar. When it was done he pulled his glasses off with his right hand and gave them to Stan.

Stan put the glasses away on the bedside table. “Well then,” he said, pulling a blanket over his brother’s body because he might as well, “See you later.” He went over to the door, muttering half-loud, “I can’t believe that _I’m_ now the responsible adult between us.”

“Hah,” Ford said weakly from the bed. “Goodnight, Stanley.”

“Goodnight, Stanford.”

Closing the door behind him, Stan realized it was three in the morning and he had no idea what he should do with himself for the rest of the night.

After considering it for a moment, he shrugged and settled for the TV chair.

 

* * *

Stanford woke up gasping, his head on an unfamiliar pillow. Echoes of a rapidly fading dream flooded his mind with sensations of profound failure and loss, and for a moment he barely even remembered who he was.

Then he realized he must have been asleep.

Cursing and berating himself to all hells and back, he bolted off the bed – or he tried to, before being pulled back by his left wrist caught in something behind him, his shoulder twisting painfully as he’d tried to move further than the restraint allowed. For a terrifying moment he was convinced Bill had done this to him. He’d lost, _everything_ was lost.

Then he remembered. He let himself sink back against the mattress, trying to breathe.

 _Stanley_. Stanley the old man with the grey hair and the lined face and the unrelenting insistence that he trust him. As a result he was now stuck to a bed, and Bill had _not_ been able to get to the portal or – yes, the rift. It was okay. It was fine. He had not doomed the world by succumbing to sleep. He was held prisoner, yes, but not by malevolence.

Surely not.

He sighed shakily, looking up at the blurry wooden ceiling, and tried to recall the dream. The fact that it was all but gone indicated that it had been exactly that, though – a dream. A mundane nightmare. It was an unfamiliar sensation. Bill’s mindscape visitations were different – they were always lucid for one thing, and tended to be almost as clearly recallable as real-life experiences. Once, not too long ago, he’d have been disappointed at having to deal with his own randomly firing synapses again, but now it was a relief. A dream that wasn’t real.

Ford stayed on his back and slowly felt his heart and lungs return to a more reasonable tempo. Only then did he reluctantly acknowledge the stinging pain. Being hurt was no surprise, of course – he was always in pain these days. Even the fact that his left wrist felt tender and raw was perfectly expected, no doubt the result of a struggle against the cuff during the night. Nevertheless, large swatches of his chest and abdomen hurt in a new way, and he didn’t like it at all.

Part of him simply didn’t want to look. If he didn’t look he could still pretend it was nothing. But he clearly remembered buttoning his shirt up after the shower last night, and just as clearly it was hanging open around him now, so that would have disproven the hypothesis that Bill had left him alone even if there hadn’t been any pain.

He groaned as he forced himself up to sit on the pillow with his back against the bars of the headboard. Looking himself over, he felt his stomach sink.

His torso was stained with red and brown and black from his abdomen to the left shoulder, blood in various stages of coagulation dripping slowly from a myriad cuts. Some of the cuts seemed to have re-opened when he moved, and probably when he’d tried to scramble off the bed, too. The edges of his white shirt were stained with blood.

And it wasn’t just random cuts. Bill had been... doodling. Ford’s skin was carved with a multitude of roughly equilateral triangles of different sizes, making an irregular pattern covering most of his stomach, chest and across to his left shoulder. Most of the triangles were plain, but a few included an eye, and even little limbs. The cuts were deep enough to hurt, most likely to scar, but not to cause any real damage.

The message was crystal clear.

He could hear Bill’s unearthly laughter in the back of his mind, and he shuddered violently.

Ford forced himself take a deep breath. Then another. And a third, frantically trying to convince himself not to give up breathing altogether. He felt sick. Bill was trying to rattle him, and it worked – it always worked. He’d given his own bodily autonomy away, and he wasn’t going to be allowed to forget it. But for a moment he’d imagined – he’d _hoped_ – that nothing would happen. That Bill couldn’t hurt him tonight. Of course Bill was going to pull something like this to prove him wrong.

He wanted to get up and pace the room. He wanted to hide himself under three layers of sweaters, never see his own skin again. The shower yesterday had been bad enough, but the older marks had never been so large, or so... pictographic. He was _owned_ , and he’d stay that way for the rest of his life, and he knew that. He still had to fight.

He settled for using his available hand to close the shirt he was wearing. There were more stains bleeding through. He was shaking again, and he couldn’t stop.

It didn’t matter. It was completely inconsequential. Bill had been stopped from endangering the world, or even threatening anyone else. Stanford was only paying for his own mistakes. It didn’t matter.

He wished he knew where Bill had gotten his hands on a knife. None of Stanley’s drawers or shelves were reachable from his restrained position, and Ford’s bitten-down nails were hardly sharp enough to be responsible for these cuts. Of course, Stanley could have left some sharp object lying within reach on the floor.

Stanley could have done that on purpose.

_He wouldn’t._

It would help if he could at least _see_ the tool Bill had used, but he couldn’t. As far as he could make out of his immediate surroundings without glasses, there was nothing. And Stanley had placed his glasses out of reach on the bedside table.

How long had he been asleep? Bill must have had some time on his hands to do this. The stained-glass window was letting in more than enough light to see by, so it had to be past sunrise. Wasn’t Stanley supposed to check on him?

He tugged at the handcuff without thinking, hissing as he the hard metal frame of the restraint rubbed against his already raw wrist. He was trapped.

He’d agreed to this, too.

He was _helpless_.

Ford swallowed and pulled the blanket up around himself where he sat, struggling to arrange it around himself while only having the use of one hand. He wasn’t going to panic, he was _not_ going to panic.

The journal. It was still in his coat pocket on the floor, just within reach. Getting it and the pen up on the bed one-handed was a bit of a fight, but one that he was able to win. He needed to finish the calculations he’d started last night on the temporo-spacial properties of the portal and the formation of the rift. Perhaps he could even deduce some of the rift’s more specific properties, making it possible to formulate some options for neutralizing it.

He had to do _something_.

 

Some time later – though he hadn’t managed to do more than confirm known facts and discard some of the more outrageous ideas that came to mind (don’t throw the rift into the bottomless pit: high risk of spacial paradox) – when the door to the bedroom opened, slowly and quietly, as if someone was trying to sneak inside without disturbing. Ford dropped the pen immediately, leaning back and pulling the blanket up to his chin, hiding the bloodstains.

A gray-haired blur stopped in the doorway, most likely to process the fact that Ford was obviously not asleep. “Stanford?” It was a question.

“Yes,” Ford said. “It’s me. But check my eyes and don’t take my word for it.”

Stanley came closer and did just that. Apparently satisfied, he sat down on the edge of the bed a few feet from Ford. “I didn’t expect you to be awake yet,” he said. “Did something happen?”

Ford blatantly ignored the question. “What time is it?”

“Nine-fifteen. It’s been six hours, kid – that’s not nearly enough sleep for the state you were in.”

Less than that, actually, considering that he’d been awake for a while, but still more consecutive hours of unconsciousness than he’d had in weeks. He’d take it. But— “Stanley, did you just call me ‘kid’?”

Stanley looked confused for a moment, then it seemed to hit him that he’d really done that. He leaned forward with his arms on his knees made a strange choking sound that might have been laughter.

Stanford watched it with some kind of emotion that he couldn’t name in the pit of his stomach. He was a grown man in his thirties – he shouldn’t be called ‘kid’ by his own twin. His own twin shouldn’t be of an _appropriate age_ to call him ‘kid’. It was ridiculous, but it definitely wasn’t funny. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to reach out to his brother, but the cuff would have stopped him even if he did.

It seemed to take an effort of will for Stanley to calm down and straighten up. “I’m sorry,” he said finally, looking at the far wall. “Won’t do that again.” He turned back to Ford. “I don’t suppose I could convince you to try to get some more sleep?”

“No,” Ford said. He’d lost all will to sleep. Hopefully a few hours had done some good, at least. “I’d appreciate it if you undid the restraint.”

Stanley frowned, but nodded. “If that’s what you want,” he said, fishing out the key to the handcuffs from the pocket of his boxers and edged closer to Ford to get to his left wrist by the headboard. “But you’re still sleep-deprived, so don’t go disappearing anywhere on your own, okay?”

Before Ford could decide whether or not to reply to that, Stanley must have gotten a look at his wrist, because he gasped a curse and hastened to get the cuff off without another word.

Losing the restraint was like a terrible weight lifted off his shoulders. He had to resist the urge to get off the bed immediately just because he could. Instead he pulled his left arm up against his chest and watched his six fingers flex, feeling lightheaded.

“Shit,” Stanley was saying. “I’m so sorry, I should have realized—” He took hold of Ford’s arm again, looking at the bleeding, raw mark that encircled the wrist directly below the hand.

“Don’t!” Ford said reflexively, trying to pull away, but Stanley was stronger. The lightheadedness evaporated, replaced by a terrifying certainty that Stanley _wasn’t going to let him get away_ —

“Easy, Poindexter,” Stanley said, letting go of his arm and raising both hands in a placating gesture. “You’re bleeding. I was just trying to take a look.” Ford realized he’d been tensing up like a bowstring, and his brother must have noticed. He wasn’t a prisoner. Stanley wasn’t with Bill, and he wasn’t _like_ Bill.

Surely displaying a chafed wrist was less humiliating than wearing the cuff in the first place. “Look, then.”

This time Stanley barely touched him, but simply studied the wound with an increasingly steely frown. Ford hadn’t actually seen it properly himself before now, and he had to admit it looked ugly. He’d lost more skin than he’d expected.

“How could I be so stupid?” Stanley muttered. Then, louder, “Bill did this.”

Ford nodded silently.

“This is deliberate,” Stanley continued with an agitated gesture towards Ford’s wrist, as if the wound was an insult to _him_. “This isn’t just from tugging at it – he was doing this deliberately to hurt you.”

Ford huffed dryly. “That would be the assumption, yes.”

“And I didn’t even think of that possibility. Goddammit, Stan.” Stanley picked up the handcuffs and threw them at the nearest wall with a loud clatter. “Okay, this was a bad idea. Unless maybe we could wrap them in cotton or something... I don’t know.” He pinched the bridge of his nose.

Ford pulled his left arm inside the blanket, too, wincing slightly when several minor wounds rubbed against cloth and each other. He was not going to mention the rest.

“Did he manage to do anything else to you?” Stanley asked, as if reading his mind. “I didn’t hear anything, and when I checked around five you were sleeping like a baby, but—"

“I’m fine,” Ford said with as much conviction he could muster. It wasn’t a lot. “The important thing is that he didn’t get anywhere near the rift.”

Stanley sighed. “If you were fine you wouldn’t be awake after six hours in the first place.” He grimaced. “Are you cold?”

“I suppose I am,” Ford said. It wasn’t actually a lie. It wasn’t the main reason he was balled up in a blanket, but it was a decent one nevertheless.

“Do you have a fever? Can demons cause fevers?” Stanley touched Ford’s forehead with a couple of fingers. “I have no idea. I’ll get a thermometer with the bandages for your wrist.”

“Is all that necessary?”

“You bet it is.” Stanley looked at him intently. “And afterwards,” he said, “I know exactly what we’re gonna do.”

“Oh?”

“We’re gonna have breakfast.”

Stanford chortled in spite of himself.

“And _then_ —" Stanley pointed a finger at Ford, “—we’re gonna find a way to get that demon out of your head. And that’s before we worry any more about the end of the world. That rift is gonna last longer than you will at this rate.”

He sounded so earnest about it. Ford let his head fall backwards and stared at the ceiling, biting back the explanation of how that was impossible. “Have you kept any of my clothes?” he asked instead. “I’d like to change.”

“Yeah,” Stanley said and pointed towards the other end of the room. “I washed up a bunch earlier – they’re in a basket over there.”

“Good.” Ford motioned to get up, still huddled in the blanket. “I’ll meet you in the kitchen.”

Stanley hesitated, and for a moment Ford was afraid he wouldn’t agree to that, that he wouldn’t give him the privacy to get dressed, but after a moment he nodded. “Don’t take too long. I’ll be waiting with some first aid and pancakes,” he promised before leaving.

 

Stanford stared after his disappearing brother for a few moments before making an effort to collect himself. Dropping the blanket made him shiver, and he did not feel like looking at his body, but he could hardly ignore the cuts when moving at all made them protest painfully. He could feel barely-formed scabs reopening just from straightening his back. It was distracting, but he could handle that.

Once he got to his feet he was also annoyed to note that the room was spinning around him, making him touch the wall for support until it passed. He’d slept; he should have been stronger.

His glasses were right on the temporarily isolated bedside table a couple of steps away, and being able to see – together with being mobile and unrestrained – did make him feel better, though. And while he might still be shaky, he did feel better than before. Slightly less clouded.

Bill could do what he liked to him; he still had enough strength to fight back.

Ford put Stanley’s laundry basket up on the bed and rummaged through it, moving stiffly as to not disturb the cuts too much. The clothes were a welcome bit of familiarity in the midst of a place that should have been familiar but wasn’t. Something in his house that was still _his_. They smelled clean, too. He’d almost forgotten what clean clothes smelled like.

He changed into clean pairs of boxers and pants, then shrugged his bloodied white shirt off. It was a lost cause anyway, so he bundled it up and used it in a futile attempt to dab away some of the excess blood. It didn’t matter, he didn’t care about the blood – it was the markings as such that made him feel sick. What he needed was to get the whole mess out of sight. He picked a dark blue shirt and shrugged it on, actively ignoring a few drops of blood that leaked through while he buttoned it up. A soft brown sweater vest on top covered that – he patted himself down just to make sure. Even better – the basket contained his spare trench coat, and wrapping himself in that added yet another layer.

The journal went into the designated inside pocket of the clean coat, and the pen into his chest pocket. The blood-stained shirt and the rest of the dirty clothes went out of sight under the blanket, haphazardly thrown over the bed with its own stained side down. He put the laundry basket back on the floor and sat back on the edge of the bed, running a hand through his hair and sighing.

Stanley had promised pancakes.


	5. Pancakes

The hunger signals that hadn’t quite reached Ford’s brain earlier was doing so with a vengeance by the time he came down to the kitchen. Stanley apparently made pancakes by their mother’s recipe, with a liberal sprinkling of cinnamon, and the smell alone made Stanford stop in the doorway and indulge in the luxurious illusion of – comfort? Perhaps even safety.

His brother was already seated by the table together with the grand niece and nephew, and the children were eating – he noted that the girl had her pancakes with an alarming amount of fruit sauce, whipped cream and glittery sprinkles. For some reason the young twins greeted him with a cheerful good morning, as if they were happy to see him. He couldn’t imagine why – he was a stranger to them, and he could hardly have made a good impression last night, so there was no reason for them to be excited.

Stanley insisted on seeing to Ford’s wrist first of all. Ford expected it to be quite unnecessary – the injury wasn’t likely to kill him anyway – but he had to admit that it stung less after being cleaned and wrapped in soft gauze. It also stopped the hem of his sleeve from rubbing painfully against the wound, even though it limited his movements somewhat.

“Thanks,” he mumbled.

Stanley shrugged and handed him an oral thermometer. “How do you feel?”

Ford considered the question for a moment. “Not ideal,” he admitted, although that much must be obvious to anyone. “But better, overall.” He put the tip of the thermometer under his tongue and waited for the reading.

Stanley patted his left shoulder, and Ford suppressed a wince. “You still need more sleep and some food in ya. What does the gizmo say?”

“No fever,” Ford said after checking, finding it to be almost exactly what he’d expected, then handed the thermometer back to Stanley. “I didn’t think there would be.”

Stanley took a look at the reading and frowned. “Huh,” he said. “Isn’t this kinda low?”

“Yes. That means there’s no fever.” Of course, it _was_ low, but probably not dangerously so. “Actually,” Ford added, glancing at the pancakes, “I’m hungry.”

Stanley looked happier at that. “Glad to hear it! Go ahead and eat.”

The pancakes tasted just as delicious as they smelled, if not better. The fact that his body was starting to remember hunger for the first time in weeks might have something to do with it, but the fact remained that he hadn’t had homemade pancakes in many years. It brought back memories of a different time, when life had been simpler and the weight of the world hadn’t been piled on his shoulders one mistake at a time. He would have liked to eat a stack of them, but sadly he could barely finish one before a wave of nausea caught up to him and he had to put his fork down.

Stanley looked up from his own pancakes. “Did it taste okay?”

Ford nodded. “They’re like mom’s.”

Stanley grinned. “Success!”

It occurred to Ford that after thirty years, their parents might not even be alive anymore. He was _not_ thinking about that. If he couldn’t eat more, he should be thinking about the rift. The alien adhesive was still the best idea he had for neutralizing it, but he had to admit it was an unpredictable substance. He’d never been able to discover exactly what uses the aliens had had for it, though sealing rifts in reality was probably not it. It most likely wouldn’t be a permanent solution even if it worked.

Ford appreciated that neither of the children had asked explicitly about the wound on his wrist – perhaps it was obvious even to a child – but now he suddenly noticed Mabel looking thoughtfully at the bandage.

“Can I draw on it?” she asked, already holding several colored markers.

“Just leave out the glitter, sweetie,” Stanley told her immediately, as if permission was a foregone conclusion.

“Don’t!” Ford said, scowling at the girl and pulling his arm away from her. “That’s completely unnecessary!”

She made puppy-dog eyes at him. “Please, uncle Ford!” Was that a normal thing children did?

“No,” he repeated, softer. “I’d rather you didn’t.”

“Oh.” She sighed. “I just wanted to cheer you up. You say you feel better, but you still look sad!”

“I’m not sad. And I doubt a _doodle_ is going to fix anything that is wrong with me.” He’d prefer not to find any more markings on his own body this morning.

Mabel huffed and looked at him like he was an especially challenging puzzle, but Stanley interrupted before she said anything else.

“Alright, still having breakfast here,” he said, handing Ford a cup of black tea that he hadn’t asked for but wasn’t about to turn down. “We’re brainstorming Ford’s problems later.”

“Alright,” Mabel grumbled, getting back to stuffing over-accessorized pancake in her mouth.

Ford took a sip of tea, wondering whether it would be better to walk out of this domesticity now and force himself to get something done or whether it’d be worth it to stay and pretend he belonged here for another few minutes. The tea was good, but he really would have preferred coffee.

“Great uncle Stanford?” Dipper said. “Could we talk about the journals now? Just a little bit? If you want to! There’s so many creatures out there that I’ve met this summer that you wrote about and I’ve got so many questions about stuff and maybe we could compare notes and—”

“Dipper,” Ford interrupted him.

“Yes!”

This was the child who had been writing in Ford’s journal, been possessed by Bill, and kept a memory gun. Perhaps Ford really did want to talk to him. He leaned forward across the table, ignoring the way the fresh cuts on his body protested the movement. “Stanley mentioned that you were the one who found my third journal.”

“Yes! I did! Right at the beginning of summer, it was in this—”

“I know where it was. I put it there.”

“Ah, yes! Of course you did. But it was a good hiding place! Grunkle Stan said he never found it in thirty years, and it was really mostly a coincidence that I did, so—” He stopped, pursing his mouth.

That wasn’t where Ford had been going with this, but the conclusion of that thought was obvious. He sighed. “So if you hadn’t found it you wouldn’t have a universe destroying rift in the house, no.” He’d wanted those journals to be hidden away for a reason.

Stanley opened his mouth to protest, but Mabel was faster. “He meant that if he hadn’t found it you would still be stuck behind the portal, silly!”

Ford felt his shoulders tense. He knew that perfectly well, but so much had happened that he’d almost lost perspective. “That would have been preferable,” he said tersely.

It would have been unbearable, too. Just thinking it made his fists clench involuntarily on the table. But if Stanley had left him and forgotten about the portal there would be no rift and Ford’s foolishness would no longer endanger anyone, and that _would_ have been better.

“Nu-huh,” Mabel said, childishly shaking her head. “You don’t even believe that yourself.”

“Thank you, Mabel,” Stanley said. “And you shut up, Poindexter.”

Ford bristled. He knew he was right. “You want _me_ to shut up? _You_ put the world in danger by opening the portal!”

“I didn’t _make_ that portal!”

“You didn’t have to aggravate my mistake! You _knew_ it was dangerous!”

“Hey!” Mabel shouted, waving her arms around. “Hey! No shouting at breakfast!”

In the momentary silence that followed, Dipper raised an arm and spoke up. “I actually have a question,” he said. “Great uncle Stanford – what _is_ on the other side of the portal?”

“That’s a good question,” Stanley added, crossing his arms. “Can people live there at all?”

Stanford looked down at his empty plate. “No – I don’t think so. Bill called it a ‘nightmare realm’, and that’s an apt name.”

“Great.” Stanley said, an edge in his voice now. “So you’re saying it would have been preferable if I _killed_ you.”

“No!” Ford looked up again. “I didn’t say that! I just—” He’d certainly implied that, but no, he didn’t want to turn Stanley into a murderer. Worse. Ford might not even have _died_ in the nightmare realm. And in either case, Stanley would never have known.

It occurred to him to wonder what he himself would have done if he’d accidentally pushed Stanley into the portal instead. He couldn’t be sure. Stopping Bill was the priority. Could he really have risked the world to fix a smaller mistake? Could he have lived with himself if he hadn’t? He didn’t know, and the thought was unbearable in a different way than imagining himself lost in the nightmare realm.

“It’s fine,” he said eventually, leaning back in his chair and silently wincing as the cuts stretched again. “You saved my life, Stanley,” he added quietly. He hated the weakness that made him feel grateful for it.

Stanley huffed.

“That’s enough!” Mabel said. “Uncle Ford, give grunkle Stan a hug!”

Ford and Stanley glanced at each other, then at Mabel, but neither moved.

“Great uncle Stanford, you know what?” Dipper spoke up. “Yesterday, before everything happened, I got really mad at grunkle Stan. I mean, furious. Because I had read all the warnings about the danger, but I didn’t know about you at all, and we’d just found out that grunkle Stan had lied to us about his name all this time, too.” He glanced at Stanley. “He said he was doing everything for this family, but I didn’t believe him, so I tried to shut the portal down before it opened completely. But Mabel—” he nodded at his sister, “—was the one who was close enough to push the button, and she trusted him, so she didn’t push it. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here, and that rift wouldn’t either.”

Mabel nodded, and Stanley a ruffled her hair a bit.

“And the thing is,“ Dipper continued, “I was _wrong_! And she was right! I realized that as soon as I saw you coming out of the portal and grunkle Stan called you his brother. Because yeah, it was risky and there’s all this danger – but you’re _family_. That’s worth the risk.” He bit his lip self-consciously, glanced at his sister again, and added, “I know I would have done the same thing if something happened to Mabel.”

Stanford shook his head slowly, trying to file away the boy’s words. He still didn’t know what to think about Dipper _or_ Mabel, but memories of another pair of twins that would have said similar things without hesitation at that age came to mind. It hurt to think that Stanley would still be able to think like that after everything that happened between them and another thirty years besides.

 _Thirty years_. He shuddered, eyes stinging. What a stubborn, knucklehead brother.

“That’s naïve,” he said eventually, but without much conviction.

Stanley sighed. “You’re definitely feeling better,” he said, “because now you’re just being stubborn for the sake of it.”

“Unlike you?” The opportunity to quip was welcome.

“Pfft. You wish.” Stanley rose and started removing the dishes and the remaining pancakes from the table. “I get it, Ford,” he said from the kitchen counter. “You’re worried about Bill.”

“Bill is a jerk and we’re not standing for it!” Mabel declared and slammed her fist on the table. She could have been talking about a schoolyard bully. Dipper nodded confidently, but he was rubbing the marks on his arm again.

Stanley returned to the table and slumped back into his chair. He turned to face Stanford. “So. How do we get him out of your head?”

“I—what?”

“How do we get Bill out of your head?” Stanley repeated. “I told you. That’s gonna be our priority one, here. Let’s brainstorm.”

Stanford folded twelve fingers around his teacup. There was no way around it. “You can’t,” he said. “It’s impossible. He made sure of that when we made the deal.”

“Really? What were the terms?”

Ford looked out the window. “’From now until the end of time’.”

“Hm.” Stanley frowned. “Not a lot of leeway there, huh. Well, as long as we’re brainstorming—” He looked at Mabel, who was unfolding a large piece of blank paper. “Put down ‘stop time’ as an option.”

“Yep!” She did so, with a glittery pink marker.

“Stanley!” Ford rose to his feet and raised his arms, appalled. “What are you trying to do here? This is serious! We need to neutralize the rift, not waste time playing games with impossibilities! Bill is going to stay in my head and the more time passes, the less I’m going to be able to—”

“I’m dead serious,” Stanley said, talking over him. “We’re gonna fix you before we fix the rift – now sit down.”

Ford sat down, despite better judgement. “If ‘stop time’ is an answer,” he muttered, “You might as well put down ‘punch Bill into oblivion’ while you’re at it. Isn’t that your favored solution?”

“Good idea,” Stanley said, and Mabel wrote ‘punch Bill’ on her list. It was ridiculous. “Any other suggestions?”

“If Bill is in his head,” Dipper said, “maybe we can go into his mindscape and force him to leave? It worked once. More or less.”

“He’s not actually present there all the time,” Ford said with some exasperation, “And even if you did find him and somehow made him leave, nothing would stop him from coming back.” He didn’t enjoy the thought of opening himself up to more people rummaging through his thoughts and memories, either.

“We’re brainstorming, Sixer,” Stanley said. “Don’t explain why it won’t work just yet.”

Right then, a voice came from the living room. “Mr Pines, are you still—Oh.” Soos appeared in the kitchen doorway and looked around. “Hi, younger Mr Pines. How you doing, dood?”

“I—um.” Ford hesitated. “Better.”

Soos gave him a thumbs up before turning to Stanley. “Mr Pines, I’ve finished checking around, and there’s a bunch of minor stuff I could fix right now, but I think we’re gonna have to order some cement and stuff for the foundation. It’s like, the entire Shack actually floated in the air there for a bit, you know, so there’s a bunch of huge cracks.” The gravity anomalies. They must have been intense, indeed.

Stanley grunted. “Yeah, I’ll handle that later. Hey, Soos, why don’t you join us for a bit?”

“Nah, I already had breakfast.”

“No, for brainstorming. We’re trying to come up with ways to get Bill out of my brother’s head. Any ideas?”

“Hmm.” Soos put a hand over his chin in thought. “Think we could go into the mindscape and make him go away?”

“Yeah, Dipper already suggested that.”

Soos frowned deeper. “Hmmmm. Oh, I know! If Bill made a deal to be in your head, couldn’t someone, like, trick him into some kinda reverse deal? I bet Mr Pines could do that.”

Stanley grinned. “I like that one. Write it down, sweetie.”

“But—” Stanford stopped, not sure if he was frustrated or just confused. That was nonsense. Bill would _know_. How could you trick a trickster?

“Cool,” Soos said. “I’ll be outside if you need me.”

“So what do _you_ think, Sixer?” Stanley asked, leaning towards Ford as Soos left.

Ford made a defeated gesture. “What do you expect me to say?”

“You can’t tell us you haven’t been thinking about it. Problem is, you’ve been trying to handle things alone without sleeping or eating, _and_ he’s poking at your mind, so of course it feels hopeless. But right now we’re brainstorming together, so go ahead and tell us what kinda crazy ideas you have. Even if they won’t work.”

“You want me to tell you about the things I’ve considered. That won’t work.”

“Yeah. What’ve you got?”

Ford closed his eyes, but opened them again quickly as he felt more than heard a tinny laughter in the back of his mind. “Well,” he said with a sigh. Of course he’d been contemplating it, especially at first. Ways of breaking his connection to Bill, at least temporarily. Bill had mocked him for it more than once, and he was well aware that their deal was forever, but he _had_ considered it.

“There’s a machine down on the second basement level,” he told them. “Fiddleford and I built it to read and register people’s thoughts, and it works well for that purpose. In theory, it could be modified to not just read the mind but affect the brainwaves in such a way to put a filter over it. It would be analogous to using a simple ceasar cipher – move the letters of the alphabet a few steps to the side, and plain text looks like gibberish. Such an encrypted mind would be incomprehensible to outside forces.” He grimaced. “Unfortunately, there’s no way that I know of to do that without utterly destroying the mind at the same time.”

Dipper winced, but Stanley looked thoughtful. “Anything else?” he asked.

“A physical barrier made of cold steel placed in direct contact with the brain might do it, but the likelihood of surviving such a surgical procedure is very low.” He swallowed the last of his tea. There had been a point when he’d seriously considered cutting his own skull open to attempt this. Bill had discouraged it by giving him a minor concussion and told him he’d looked forward to piloting his corpse.

Stanley grimaced at that, but then he raised a finger. “Wait a second. What about the barrier spell?”

“The what?”

“It’s in your journal number one,” Stanley said. “I’ve read that one a few times by now, and there’s one place where you describe some kind of magic spell that’s supposed to ward off incorporeal weirdness or whatever from a building. Wouldn’t that work against Bill?”

“Oh.” Ford scratched the side of his head. “That one.” He knew what Stanley meant, but it was hardly useful. “I don’t even know if it’s real. I never had the opportunity to try it out when I discovered the formula, and the theories behind such mysticism are still a bit... opaque. One of the components is impossible to acquire.”

“You’re talking about the unicorn hair?” Stanley asked. He’d definitely done his reading.

“Yes. Unicorn hair.” He had attempted to deal with the unicorn of this forest years ago, long before he met Bill and started to unleash evil upon the world, and even then he hadn’t been pure enough to be worthy of its hair. By the time he would have needed a barrier, he hadn’t even considered trying.

Mabel gasped, eyes widening. “ _Unicorns_!? There’s unicorns in Gravity Falls? Please please grunkle Stan can I go see them? I _love_ unicorns! I’ve always loved unicorns, they’re amazing and beautiful!”

That was not how Stanford would describe unicorns, but Mabel’s reaction made his mind spin with sudden implications, his jaw falling open. _He_ wasn’t worthy of a unicorn’s protection, but – a child? A little girl? It wasn’t impossible. It felt like a door that had been locked and barred was suddenly standing ajar. If that spell worked – if he could keep Bill away, if only inside the building – it was enormous.

“Do you mean—” He had to clear his throat. “Do you mean you would be willing to go out there and ask the unicorn for its hair? For this purpose?” He didn’t say ‘for my sake’, but it was the same thing. She had no reason whatsoever to do anything for him, except that she was Stanley’s family. _His_ family.

“Yes!” she said without hesitation, raising her arms. “I’ll go get unicorn hair for you, uncle Ford! I won’t let you down!” She looked around at the others. “No arguments, right? I’m definitely the most pure hearted person in this room!”

“Can’t argue with that,” Dipper said with a shrug.

“Sure,” Stanley agreed. “Although for the record, that ‘pure of heart’ business smells kinda fake to me – it can be interpreted in far too many different ways.”

Mabel pursed her lips. “What do you mean?”

“I’m just telling you to be careful, Mabel. I don’t know anything about unicorns, but if it tries to mess with ya, _don’t let it_.”

Mabel smiled. “Okay. But I’m sure it won’t!”

“That’s my girl.” Stanley patted her on the shoulder. “See, Sixer?” he said to Ford. “We’re getting somewhere.”

A part of Ford was certain this wouldn’t work. Mabel would fail, or Bill would _stop_ her, or the spell would turn out to be useless after all. But that was no reason not to try. He tapped six fingers on the table, making a decision. “You should borrow my first journal,” he told Mabel before he had time to regret it. “It will tell you how to get to the unicorn’s glade and what to expect in that area. Just – just don’t lose it anywhere.” It mustn’t fall into the wrong hands, but Mabel... wasn’t that. She was family, and Stanley most certainly trusted her. If she could do this—

He’d insist to come with her, but no, she’d have better chances without him.

“Thanks!” she said. “It’s still in the basement, right?”

Ford nodded.

“I’ll pick it up before leaving. See you later!” Mabel said with a smile and waved at them. As she took off towards the gift shop, Ford heard her shout into a – tiny walkie-talkie? – “Candy! Grenda! Wendy! Clear the day! We’ve got a _mission_!”

Ford flinched. He hadn’t expected her to be taking friends along, even though he should have. That was three more names that he didn’t know – people who was _not_ family and there was absolutely nothing guaranteeing that none of them had dealt with Bill.

“Mabel, wait!” he called and hurried after her, awkwardly colliding with the doorframe when the dizziness returned as soon as he moved. He failed to suppress a groan of pain when the impact jolted the cuts on his chest.

“Uncle Ford?” Mabel said, turning back to him. “Are you okay?” She mumbled something to the small device in her hand, then put it away.

“No. Yes. I’m okay.” Ford shook his head to clear it, keeping balance with one hand on the wall. “It’s just that – your friends.” He couldn’t stop her from bringing them. The forest would be safer with company. “Who are they?”

She tilted her head at him. “I just told them to come here, so you can meet them if you like!”

“Yes, good. I’ll do that.” At the very least he’d be able to confirm that Bill wasn’t possessing them.

Mabel walked over to the vending machine and pressed the code. “Candy is smart and funny and Korean,” she explained, “and Grenda is super strong and has a lizard, and I met them both on a party that grunkle Stan threw earlier this summer. And Wendy’s this teenager who works right here at the Mystery Shack. Except it’s closed right now after those gravity hiccups last night, so she’s off duty.”

“You okay there, Sixer?” Stanley asked behind them, making Ford jump.

“Yes, of course.”

“Going downstairs?”

“Yep, to get the journal,” Mabel replied in his stead. To Ford’s surprise, she grabbed his hand and voluntarily pulled him along down the stairs to the elevator. Stanley followed. It was obvious that his brother didn’t trust Ford to be alone with the grand niece, but that much was fair.

Mabel’s hand was small and warm, and after getting into the elevator, she smiled and squeezed his fingers. “Wow,” she said. “Six fingered hand-holding. That’s a whole finger cozier than normal!”

Ford blinked at her. “You’re weird.” It was a conclusion he might have drawn when she first started spouting silliness, but he felt more confident about it now. She was _weird_ , not derisive. He squeezed her hand back. “I like that.”

She beamed at him. “Thanks! I make it work!”

The first and second journals were still on the work desk where they’d been left. Ford flipped through the first one to the page detailing the formula for the barrier spell first, refreshing his memory on the other components. Then he showed Mabel where to find the information on the enchanted glade and the unicorn itself. “Just don’t lose it,” he reminded her as he handed over the book.

Mabel assured him she wouldn’t.

 

A few minutes later they were all waiting by the main entrance to the house for Mabel’s friends to arrive. The porch didn’t look much like Ford remembered it, and not just because it was summer. He could see how it must have been repaired – even rebuilt – time and again over the years, and even at present one of the support beams for the roof was damaged, apparently by the gravity flux last night. There was a couch right beside the door – old and well-worn, but unfamiliar to Ford – that Stanley immediately lounged in, joined by Dipper. Ford tried it, but while it was lumpy and threadbare and somewhat smelly, it was still soft and comfortable enough to make his eyes start drooping. He got back up and started pacing instead, acclimatizing himself to the feeling of cuts stretching on his chest.

While he was at it, he walked a circuit around the house to get a look at it. The greatest change was the huge sign on the roof that named it the ‘Mystery Shack’ – or possibly the ‘Mystery Hack’, since the ‘S’ had fallen over. Knowing Stanley, it could be a deliberate pun. There were plenty of smaller signs as well, making vague promises of ‘amazement’ and ‘wonder’. The porch outside what was now the gift shop looked completely unfamiliar. The backyard had turned into a parking lot.

It was all... uncomfortable. But no more than he’d started to expect. _Thirty years_.

The redhaired teenager arrived first, waving at Stanley and the children from a distance. Noticing Ford, she grinned and walked straight up to him. “Hi there!” she said. “You must be Stan’s brother from thirty years ago or whatever Soos was babbling about last night.” She held out a hand for him to shake. “Wendy Corduroy.”

Hiding his hands behind his back was a reflex. He looked from her hand to her eyes – white and green, no hint of demonic influence. Her pupils constricted normally in the sunlight, too. “Yes,” he said, without taking her hand. “I’m Stanford Pines.”

She laughed, pulling her hand away. “Crazy,” she said. “You really do look like a young Stan.”

“I should. We’re twins.”

“Uh-huh.” She had a very cheerful smile. “I’m digging the sweater vest, by the way.”

“Um.” Ford flustered. “Thanks?”

She ignored that, turning over to Mabel to ask about the ‘mission’. Ford had to be satisfied with that. She wasn’t possessed. It was fine.

The other two girls arrived soon enough on bicycles, both of them rolling up to Mabel and engaged in a squeeing three-way bearhug before exchanging a single word. Once they were done, Mabel was the one to introduce them to Ford.

“This is Candy!” Mabel gestured at a petite girl of East Asian heritage.

“Nice to meet you,” Candy said.

“And this is Grenda!” A much bulkier girl with reddish hair and the word ‘cool’ printed on her t-shirt.

“Hi!” Her voice was incongruous to the point that Ford found himself wanting to like her despite himself. He knew what it was like being an anomalous child. The thought was irrelevant, so he pushed it away.

“And this is uncle Ford!” Mabel told her friends. “He’s grunkle Stan’s brother and he sort of got timetrapped in a portal for thirty years, but grunkle Stan got him back last night!”

“Whoa,” Grenda said, staring at him with wide eyes.

“That is amazing!” Candy said. “You must tell us everything about Gravity Falls in 1982.”

Ford didn’t reply, but silently crouched down to the children’s level and looked them in the eyes. Normal, both of them. He breathed a sigh of relief before getting back up. “Thanks, Mabel.”

Going back and leaning against the wall next to Stanley’s couch, he watched Mabel tell the other girls about the unicorn hair and showing them the directions in the journal. They were off not much later.

“They’ll get your magic hair,” Stanley said confidently. “Don’t worry about it.”

“If anyone can deal with unicorns, it’s Mabel,” Dipper agreed.

“I hope so.” Stanford should know better than to have hope.

“So what else did you need for that barrier?” Stanley looked up at him. “Mercury?”

“Yes, about three ounces of it. And seven moonstones. I have those things in—” He stopped, leaning his head back against the wall. He didn’t have anything. “—I _had_ those things in the laboratory on the ground floor. Do you still have them?”

“I guess we’ll have to find out.”


	6. Thirty Years

As it turned out, Stanley really did still have some of Ford’s supply of mercury. After some searching they found it tucked away in a crate near the far end of the attic space, the crate labeled ‘Useless toxic shit’ with black marker. There was another crate next to it labeled ‘Useful toxic shit’, too. When Ford questioned Stanley about it, he scratched the back of his head and mumbled something about the portal.

Of course, the portal didn’t use mercury, and the portal had been Stanley’s focus. It was still hard to imagine his twin brother getting through all the science needed to understand the technology – but the labeling scheme was undeniably the Stanley he knew.

As for moonstones, Stanley sold them in the gift shop, together with a few other types of crystalline rocks that he explained could be marketed as ‘mysterious’.

“Moonstones _are_ mysterious, Stanley,” Ford protested, running his fingers through the drawer of polished rocks he was presented with. Stanley’s whole schtick was disturbing. He deliberately focused on the stones and picked a few of the larger ones that would be suitable for the barrier, pocketing them. “To be more precise,” he continued, “The properties of moonstones in conjunction with the supernatural have been insufficiently studied. They’re a key component in the cure for lycanthropy, for example, but I never managed to isolate exactly how it works.” Of course, that had been before Bill, when all he had cared about was finding answers to questions that few people even thought to ask. Before he’d been assured that he would change the world.

“You know I’m—” Stanley grimaced. “—I’m _not_ actually gonna charge you for those.”

“What?”

“Reflex. I’m not used to giving away merchandise. Don’t worry, I really aren’t gonna charge you.”

Ford threw him a suspicious glare.

“Anyway, glad to hear you still get excited over nerd stuff.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Stanley shrugged, a small smile on his face. “I guess it means I’ve missed you.” For a moment there was something of teenage Stanley in his pose, or in his tone, and maybe, just maybe, Ford had missed him too.

He’d missed him so much.

Something in Ford’s guts twisted. He couldn’t stand it. Not now, not here. “Then how could you do all this?” he snapped, turning around and gesturing at the shop. The words poured out as soon as he let them. “You could have done anything! And you choose to take my identity and use it to mock everything I’ve worked for?”

Stanley looked at him with a pained expression, but seemed at a momentary loss for words.

Ford paced a small circle, flexing both hands. The mockery hurt more than the fact that so much was gone. It didn’t matter, he _knew_ it didn’t. Bill mattered, the portal and the rift mattered, false advertising and unrealistically taxidermized jackalopes didn’t. It’d been thirty years, Stanley had lived a whole life here, and Stanford’s work had _not_ changed the world – and that was a good thing.

And yet it was all wrong. “I don’t understand _why_! You know the Gravity Falls anomalies are real, and yet you – you pretend to _pretend_ that they are!”

Stanley sighed and leaned back with his elbows on the counter. “Yeah, that’s pretty much what I’m doing.”

“What _possessed_ you to—” Ford stopped, backing off a few steps before he even realized what he was doing. There was a yellow glint in Stanley’s eyes.

Stanley stared at him. “Oh no. Ford, no.”

Ford was shaking his head. Stanley’s eyes were human. Something had been reflected in his glasses. That’s all it was. It had to be all it was.

“Stanford, remember to breathe.”

Ford hit his back against a shelf. He resisted the urge to pick up something – anything – to use as a weapon. Stanley wasn’t going to attack him and he was _fine_. He managed to take a deep breath and felt his shoulders sag slightly. “I’m—I’m alright,” he said. “I just thought I saw – something.”

“Yeah...” Stanley said slowly. He came a few steps closer, lifting his glasses and opening his eyes wide. “No demons here, see?”

“No.” Ford straightened his back. “Of course not.”

Stanley released a sigh. “Y’know,” he said pensively, “I always suspected you’d hate this Mystery Shack business.” He crossed his arms. “I guess I should apologize for that, but it’s not like I did it because I wanted to mock you. It just turned out I’m pretty good at making people pay for overpriced souvenirs and made-up stories, and I did need the money.” He met Ford’s eyes again, the lines in his face making him look older than ever.

Ford took a deep breath. “Yes, I know,” he said tensely. “You needed money.”

“I could hardly do it _your_ way, Poindexter. I’m not a scientist.”

That made Ford huff in spite of himself. “I would have agreed on that more readily before you operated my portal.”

“Heh.” Stanley gave him a tilted smile. “Doesn’t count. I couldn’t make money off that, could I?”

Maybe not – or maybe he could have, but he’d never tried. Ford should have been happy for that. He gestured vaguely around the gift shop again. “But why _this_?”

“A bit of a long story. Wanna hear it?”

It would be an utter waste of time. None of it mattered. He didn’t want to know. “Yes,” he said.

 

Somehow the two of them ended up in Stanley’s TV chair as his old twin told him about the first few weeks and years after he’d found himself alone in an unfamiliar house with a burnt-out portal. Well, Stanley ended up in the chair, with Ford perching on one of the armrests next to the well-preserved T-rex skull that Ford had found once and Stanley for some reason had turned into a makeshift coffee table.

Apparently Stanley had been too broke to buy food. The townspeople had mistaken him for Stanford and offered him money for tours of his collections, so of course he’d taken the offer. And since he didn’t know what the items actually were, he’d resorted to fakes and jokes to satisfy the customers. Afterwards, he’d kept doing it because it worked. Ford had to admit it made a desperate and utterly Stanley sort of sense.

Stanley never said it explicitly, but it started to occur to Ford that his brother had been homeless at the time he’d arrived in Gravity Falls. Homeless, broke, and with no particular marketable skills. The revelation made a few things fall into place, but at the same time it shattered an assumption that Ford had been clinging to for over a decade – Stanley hadn’t been fine after being banished from home at seventeen. A trickle of old, long-suppressed guilt threatened to well up in his throat, but he pushed it back down. It was well past obsolete, in any case.

Stanley was fine _now_. And if he wasn’t, it was once again his own fault.

For bringing Ford back. The irony was thick as tar.

Ford didn’t ask about details when Stanley mentioned faking his own death. To all the world Stanley was dead, and Stanford was a changed man. He didn’t ask about their family, either. Had their mother bought it? Had Shermie? Had Ford’s existence really been so negligible that no one had noticed or cared? He knew the answer, and the alternative. He’d ‘change the world’. This had to be a preferable state.

Stanley went on to tell him how he’d developed the business, what worked and what didn’t, and how he simultaneously inched his way towards an understanding of the portal’s construction. Listening to him, it sounded like this tourist trap had been the first time he’d actually been successful at something, but at the same time he’d kept berating himself for failing to make the portal work.

Ford kept his half-digested thoughts to himself. He’d asked for information – now he knew. He just didn’t know what to do with it.

“It seems you did well for yourself,” he said finally.

“You still don’t like it.”

“No.” He couldn’t. He braided his hands together and smiled slightly. “You made millions, didn’t you?”

That was the wrong thing to say. Stanley stared at him like he’d been punched. For a moment Ford thought he was going to physically punch back. In the end, though, his brother merely leaned his gray head back and chuckled. “Put it all together and I definitely did. How about that?”

Ford didn’t reply. He opened his palms again and found himself gazing at his own fingers. There were half a dozen emotions warring for expression in his guts, but nothing came out.

This wasn’t important. This didn’t matter. This was half his brother’s life. He should never have asked. He half-registered that the stinging cuts on his chest had morphed into a throbbing ache that was starting to spread to his head. He hadn’t had any coffee since he woke up and he should fix that.

“Look, Sixer,” Stanley said, breaking him out of it, “If you’re still thinking about that science project, I’m _sorry_.”

He wasn’t thinking about that. Was he? “You ruined my chances, Stanley!”

“I know! It was an accident, but I was being a knucklehead 17-year-old about it. I’m apologizing, I don’t know what else I can do!”

“What’s the difference!” Stanford stood up and immediately wobbled, trying to hide it by putting a hand on the armrest and turning to face his brother. “I’m up against a demon that’s going to destroy the world and I don’t even have access to a laboratory because you turned my house into a curiosity!”

Stanley rose to his feet too, making Ford step backwards and collide with the TV. “ _We’re_ up against a demon, because _you_ decided that making demonic pacts was a thing a scientist should do!” He pushed a finger painfully against Ford’s chest. “And in case you haven’t noticed, _I am not you_! I couldn’t live your life!”

“Then why did you pretend to be me?”

“I had no choice! Dammit Ford, have you been listening at all? It’s been thirty years! What did you expect?”

“I didn’t!” It all came down to that. It didn’t matter. He didn’t expect to survive long enough for it to become a problem. He still had to stand against Bill. But it _hurt_. “I didn’t! Expect! Thirty years!” He sank down on the floor with his back to the TV, panting.

The angry frustration drained from Stanley’s face. “I—” he tried, then stopped. “Of course you didn’t,” he muttered, scratching the back of his head. He crouched in front of Ford. “If it helps, neither did I.”

They sat in silence for a several heartbeats, neither quite looking at the other.

“It’s ridiculous,” Ford said eventually, rubbing his eyes under his glasses. “We’re wasting time and the rift is still sitting in the basement.” He took a deep breath. “There’s a certain non-reproduceable substance hidden near the center of Gravity Falls Valley that I believe could be used to neutralize the rift by sealing it away. I need to go there and retrieve it as soon as possible.”

Stanley frowned. “Not today, you’re not,” he said, as if there could be no argument. “We’re gonna wait for Mabel and the girls. And assuming they get that unicorn hair, we’re gonna set up the barrier, and then we’re gonna consider ourselves safe for a few more days while you recover from sleep-deprivation and malnutrition and whatever else it is you’re suffering from. If it needs to be done sooner, you’ll have to send one of us out.”

Ford opened his mouth to protest, but Stanley raised a hand to stop him. “I have eyes. You’re still weak as a kitten and I don’t trust you to either drive or hike, and I don’t want to have to carry you.”

“Yes, _dad_ ,” Ford said sarcastically.

Stanley huffed. “Our dad would have told you to man up and walk it off, and you know it.”

“I know.” Ford still wasn’t going to ask about their family. “He might have been right, too.”

“Not gonna risk it.” He reached out and patted Ford’s arm.

Ford sighed. His body would surely hold up as long as he wasn’t attacked by anything. And Bill wasn’t going to allow him to rest for long. But if the barrier worked and it _was_ safe – maybe a night and a day to collect himself. He’d allow himself that. “But Mabel could still fail,” he reminded both of them.

“In that case we’ll have to make some better sleeping arrangements for you. We’ll figure it out.”

“Mr Pines!” Soos appeared through the doorway from the gift shop. “I’ve found something that’s like, a problem. Since we have a secret basement and we don’t want the shack to fall down there or anything. I’m thinking you should probably come and look at it as soon as possible before we get the concrete doods to fix the foundation.” He glanced at Stanford. “If it’s not a really bad time.”

“It’s fine, Soos.” Stan rose to his feet and stretched his back. Ford wouldn’t be surprised if he was happy to have an excuse to get away, except he didn’t go immediately. “Dipper!” he called instead towards the direction of the stairs. “Come down here!”

“Coming!” Dipper called from upstairs, and a moment later he appeared in the hallway, surprisingly with a small pig trailing him. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, we’re great,” Stanley told him. “I’m gonna have to go take care of some business with the repairs, though. And I figured, you’re a nerd, my brother’s a nerd, you probably wanna get to know each other a bit, right? Well, he’s all yours.”

Dipper perked up. “Is that okay?” he asked Ford. “You don’t have anything more important to do?”

Ford stood up, deliberately dusting himself off. “I might, but I don’t think my brother is going to let me.” Considering he’d just called a 12-year-old to babysit him. He sighed, putting his hands away behind his back. “It’s fine, though. Dipper.” He had indeed wanted to talk to the nephew. “I’ve been meaning to ask you some questions.”

“Really? I’ve got so many questions for you too!”

“Great,” Stanley said. “I’ll leave you to it.” He disappeared through the gift shop with Soos.

 

Dipper almost pulled Ford back into Stanley’s seat in the TV chair. It was too soft – remaining on the floor would have been better, but it was too late to change his mind when Dipper squeezed down next to him, making him gasp involuntarily as the boy scrambled painfully against his injuries. It hurt too much to leave him in any danger of sleeping, at least.

Dipper didn’t seem to notice, being busy taking out a small notebook and a ballpoint pen from his vest pocket. “For example,” he said, clicking his pen, “How did you find out about Gravity Falls in the first place? Is it the only place in the world that has these anomalies or is it just that there’s so many of them in one place here? And is there some kind of reason for that? Do you have a map over the whole valley somewhere? Or a list of all the creatures? Oh, and I’ve seen some weird stuff that I don’t think even existed in the 80s, like video games coming to life, so do you think there’s some anomalies that just stop existing too, or will could it be that the number of creatures can only increase?”

Ford blinked. He had not expected a deluge of what seemed like innocent enthusiasm. It was different from Mabel’s weird charm, but the intensity was... familiar. Stanley was right, he probably did have something in common with this child. That wasn’t necessarily positive. “Why do you want to know these things?”

“Because it’s _there_!” Dipper exclaimed. “There’s so much out there that people don’t know about! Isn’t that why you started researching weird stuff, too?”

“Yes.” Ford glanced at his hands in his lap. “That didn’t end well. You’ve met Bill – you have an indication of this.”

“I guess.” Dipper ran his fingers over a row of puncture marks on his arm. “But we don’t have to talk about Bill. It’s not all like that! It’s fascinating and exciting and sometimes even when it’s scary you’ll figure something out and it just works and you get a kick out of it!” He grinned and punctuated the words with a raised fist, and even though his elbow scratched Ford’s chest it was a very contagious enthusiasm. “Did you know that you can blow gnomes away with a leaf blower? You’d think they’d be too heavy, but they’re not!”

Ford raised his eyebrows. “I didn’t know that. That’s interesting. How did you find out?”

“Mabel did! It was right at the beginning of summer – these gnomes tried to kidnap her and make her their new queen, so she and I had to fight them, and that’s how we made them go away.”

“The gnomes are swarming this summer?” He supposed it must have been long enough. “And they still get over-excited and try to kidnap human girls for queens. That never works out for anyone, but try to tell that to a gnome. Do you know if they’ve sorted it out yet?”

“I don’t actually know... Is this a thing that happens often?” Dipper scribbled something in his notebook.

“Only when an old queen dies. They’re supposed to wait for the next one to hatch, but sometimes they get restless and bad judgements happen. I’d guess this is the first swarm since I witnessed one back in 1977.”

Dipper’s eyes widened. “So gnomes are like – bees?”

“They’re somewhat like eusocial insects, yes! But there are lots of differences. For example, gnomes don’t—” Ford stopped himself abruptly and grimaced. He was surprised how easily he could still run off on a tangent when offered an interesting subject. “Never mind gnomes. I want to know what you’ve been using my journal for.”

“Um.” Dipper put his pen down. “Mostly for reference. I always checked with the journal whenever we found something weird, because a lot of the time you’d written about it already. And I mean, I only had one of them, but it was still really helpful a lot of times. And then I used the blank pages to make my own entries on some new stuff that happened. Important stuff!” He hesitated and looked up at Ford. “I hope you’re not mad at me for that.”

He certainly didn’t appreciate it. It wasn’t right that someone else would add to his journals – he hadn’t even let Fiddleford touch them – and they should never have been exposed to other people in the first place. But he hadn’t even read Dipper’s additions, and indeed, there was no doubt that a 12-year-old Stanford Pines would have done the same thing. “I haven’t decided yet,” he said instead.

“Oh.” Dipper’s eyes fell. “But there’s so much that has happened this summer! And your journal has been such a big part of it! I brought it with me everywhere – it was like this huge adventure right under my fingertips, just waiting to come out into the light.” He smiled wistfully. “I couldn’t just leave it alone, could I?”

“Probably not,” Stanford said with a small sigh. “I certainly couldn’t.”

Dipper beamed far more brightly than he should have at that. “So will you tell me more about Gravity Falls?”

Ford almost smiled back. “I suppose I could. But—” His caught Dipper’s eyes. “—I want to know some things from you, first. Most importantly, why did you have that memory gun?” That was concerning. The memory erasing gun was an extremely dangerous weapon, and there could be very few innocent reasons to possess one.

Dipper’s smile turned into an uncomfortable grimace. “That’s...” He hesitated. “You know about the Society of the Blind Eye?”

“I know of them.” He hadn’t heard the name, but there was no doubt that it referred to Fiddleford’s memory erasing cult-like activities. And it seemed it was still going on thirty years later. “Are you a member?”

Dipper flinched. “No!” He shook his head adamantly. “Absolutely not! It’s the complete opposite!” He clicked the pen a few more times like he was trying to focus. “Basically, me and a few others found out about this cult that were erasing people’s memories of the supernatural. And we didn’t like that. So in the end we managed to erase all the cult members’ memories of the cult – it’s all gone now. I guess I kept that gun as a kind of a trophy. Maybe that’s bad. But it did save us from the government agents!”

That was too easy. There were too many things he wasn’t saying. But— “You’re saying it doesn’t exist anymore?”

Dipper made a small shrug. “Not for the last week.”

“And in that time, have you used the memory gun on yourself at all? Or on anyone in your family?”

Dipper looked almost offended at the suggestion. “What? No. Definitely not.” He looked straight up at Ford. “I would never, ever do that.” It was the certainty of a child, but at least he didn’t seem to be tempted.

Stanford took a deep breath. “Tell me,” he said, forcing himself to ask, “was Fiddleford McGucket still with the cult when this happened?” The fact that the cult existed after thirty years was condemning enough, but the children had known Fiddleford’s name earlier, and that was a logical conclusion.

“No. He wasn’t.” Dipper’s reply was immediate, but he didn’t volunteer any more information.

Ford felt his shoulders relax slightly. The trauma Ford had caused his friend had left a legacy, but at the very least it hadn’t become Fiddleford’s _life_. He could have recovered and returned to his family.

Or he could be dead. Dipper’s strange discomfort suggested the latter. But it had been thirty years, and he didn’t want to know. Not yet. “I see,” was all he said. It had to be good enough for now.

Dipper took that as the end of the matter and quickly regained his enthusiasm. It was clear that he’d had a truly intensive last few months, and most of it was misadventures that he was more than happy to tell Ford about.

Apparently he was friends with an eight-headed multi-bear – Ford wondered if it was the same as the seven-headed one he had met, in which case it kept multiplying throughout its life, or if there was a hidden colony of them somewhere – and his sister had dated a young merman for a while. He’d once captured a gremloblin – an impressive feat, though trying to showcase it to tourists had not worked out so well – and met several different types of ghosts. The description of the derelict convenience store made Ford pause, knowing that he must have had met the old couple now haunting it, but not particularly remembering their faces. Hearing about the lumberjack haunting Northwest Manor was fascinating, though – he’d heard about the 150-year curse, but it hadn’t been activated yet at the time. There had been warring Lilli-putt-ians in the local minigolf course, and apparently the some kind of computer generated persons had come to life. Dipper had even experimented with the size-changing crystals and the advanced copying machine.

And Dipper didn’t just chatter on about it, but he asked questions, wanting to know Ford’s opinion, wanting explanations for phenomena that he didn’t understand, wanting elaborations on the bigger picture. He didn’t mention Bill, but he wanted to know about the research. The things that had gone into the journals before he had reached too high and everything had fallen apart. The sheer joy of discovery, and the kind of fear that was temporary and faded with hindsight.

Stanford got caught up in it. Dipper’s stories brought him back to a time when he could still laugh, and the world had still seemed amazing in itself. At some point he brought out the third journal from his coat and they went through some of the entries together.

Tensions that he hadn’t even realized existed in his body were starting to melt away, and maybe, somehow, he was going to be alright. He knew in the back of his head that he couldn’t think that, but he was so tired of being scared. He was so tired.

Dipper was flipping through the journal and mumbling to himself, looking for some particular entry, and over by the gift shop he could hear Stanley talking loudly on the phone to someone. He felt almost warm, almost comfortable. The skin on his chest and stomach ached, but it seemed so far away. His eyes were closing. They shouldn’t do that, but he could barely remember why.


	7. Unicorn Hair

The author of the journals wasn’t exactly like Dipper had imagined when he’d fantasized about meeting him. He was much younger, for one thing. Not that Dipper had necessarily thought the journals were written by an old man, but he’d definitely thought he’d have to be an old man if he was still alive now. But that wouldn’t have been weird enough, would it?

He was also not quite as awe-inspiring as he could have been. He was twitchy and hollow-eyed, and last night Dipper was pretty sure he’d had a full-on panic attack at the kitchen table. This morning he’d yelled at grunkle Stan for saving him, as if he’d expected to be abandoned. Dipper got that Bill had hurt him, badly, and that he hadn’t slept or eaten properly in a long time. Grunkle Stan had said he’d had to handcuff him to the bed so Bill wouldn’t go anywhere with him during the night. It was creepy and terrifying, and it was hard to idolize someone who seemed so... broken.

On the other hand, it was hard _not_ to idolize someone who had written the very journal Dipper had been living with all summer. There were so many things he wanted to talk to him about! So many questions he wanted to ask! And one thing about the author was better than anything Dipper could have envisioned – he was a _relative_. He was grunkle Stan’s brother. That meant the journals were a legacy of a kind, and Dipper hadn’t just imagined the connection he’d felt to the author – he was actually family.

And when Dipper finally got the chance to talk properly with great uncle Stanford, it was everything he could have hoped for. Sure, he got that hard look in his eyes when he mentioned Bill, but Dipper didn’t want to talk about Bill anyway, and it softened almost immediately when he started talking about the Gravity Falls anomalies. And he _knew so much_. He knew so much and he was willing to talk about it! He was listening to Dipper’s adventures like he was interested!

And sure, Dipper might have actively avoided mentioning certain things other than Bill, too. He definitely didn’t want to know how Stanford would react if he was told about Old Man McGucket – they seemed to have been friends, once, and what happened to McGucket was very much part of that whole thing where Stanford had been tricked by Bill. It wasn’t pretty, and if Stanford reacted badly Dipper might lose his chance at connecting with him. Dipper didn’t know whether he’d start yelling or just close up, but either way he didn’t want to risk it. He was glad when Stanford didn’t press the issue.

There was so much else to talk about. No one ever wanted to have real discussions about weird stuff with Dipper, but great uncle Stanford actually, seriously did. Dipper decided that even if the author of the journals might not be awe-inspiring, he was definitely _awesome_. Grunkle Stan seemed to have gotten tied up for a while tending to some kind of problem, and Dipper completely lost track of time, but he didn’t mind one bit.

He was trying to find the page on the Northwests to show Stanford what Mabel had managed to do with that mysterious scrap of paper, but he kept missing the page even though it had to be there somewhere. Stanford didn’t seem too impatient – in fact he hadn’t said anything in a few minutes – but Dipper felt a bit awkward, especially when he realized he’d gotten distracted by other pages on the way.

“Ah, there you are!” he muttered eventually. It was also a bit awkward that Mabel had drawn a silly face right there, but the silliness was kind of the point, so he could hardly say it didn’t belong.  “Look at this!” he told Stanford. “Mabel actually managed to solve this puzzle that you left behind, and it turned out it wasn’t exactly a code, but—”

He stopped when Stanford left the chair and jerked to his feet without warning.

“Hey!” Dipper said. “Where are you going?”

“I’m getting some air,” Stanford replied, waving at him without turning around, already on his way to the door. “I don’t want to fall asleep.”

“Oh.” Dipper bit his lip. “Okay.” Stanford falling asleep would be the last thing they wanted. “Am I boring you?” he asked without thinking. Stanford had definitely seemed to have fun, and yeah, Dipper knew from personal experience that sometimes you got tired just from sitting down during the day when you hadn’t slept properly at night. On the other hand, maybe he was just sick of Dipper babbling. Or maybe Dipper said something tactless after all and now he didn’t want anything more to do with him ever.

The only reply was the sound of the door closing behind him. Dipper sighed.

Of course, it might be a little bit stuffy in here – it wasn’t like the Shack had any functioning air conditioner. Dipper should probably get some air himself, or at least stretch his legs. And possibly go ask Stanford if he’d done something wrong.

He put his feet down on the floor and only then realized that he hadn’t seen Stanford’s eyes.

Stanford had been quiet for a while, and then he’d left suddenly, without showing his eyes.

 _No way._ Dipper was on the porch in an instant, wanting nothing more than to disprove his suspicion, but Stanford wasn’t there. He looked around frantically – where would he go? – why would he go without saying anything? – and rushed out on the small lawn. A chilly gust of wind threatened to blow his hat off, bending the treetops in the distance, but Stanford was gone.

Dipper had several heartbeats’ worth of growing despair, but then he caught a glimpse of something moving through the foliage between the tree trunks some distance away. A khaki trenchcoat flapped in the wind, and then it was out of sight.

There was still a chance that the man out there was Stanford, but Dipper didn’t believe it. It was Bill. And if Bill was going into the forest—

“Mabel.”

Dipper was running before the word was out of his throat. There was no time to alert grunkle Stan, or Bill would be long gone. Maybe it was already too late. Dipper had been so careless that he’d barely registered great uncle Stanford going silent, and he hadn’t even reacted when _Bill_ stood up and left. If he’d been using his brain a little earlier – maybe he could have stopped him from leaving, or at least called for help in time – but he hadn’t.

If something happened to Mabel because Dipper hadn’t realized the man he was talking to was dozing off—

If something happened to _Stanford_ the day after grunkle Stan had finally gotten him back—

He couldn’t let it happen. It was unacceptable.

Dipper ran, ignoring leaves and twigs and pine needles to his face, going over uneven ground at a speed that was probably dangerous to his feet. He couldn’t lose sight of him again. Great uncle Stanford’s back was moving briskly through the pathless forest, like he knew exactly where he was going, but Dipper didn’t. All he could do was to keep moving in the same direction and every time Stanford disappeared behind the trees Dipper couldn’t help but fear he was gone for good this time.

His lungs were pumping like bellows, but eventually he did close the distance between them. The wind was howling through the trees, and maybe that’s why Bill didn’t hear him panting or notice him barging through the forest behind him. Eventually Dipper found himself ducking behind a tree less than fifteen feet away.

Now what? He hadn’t thought this through. Fighting Bill – Stanford – Billford? – Mabel was better at naming than he was – fighting Billford hadn’t worked very well last night. And he was all alone. Mabel had a whole posse with her, including _Wendy_. Dipper realized with a shiver that was probably not just the wind that the one in most danger right now was himself.

But he was out here now. He couldn’t just turn back and leave. The best he could do was to try to keep pace and tail his young great uncle as close behind as he dared.

Billford slowed down soon enough, setting a more leisurely pace. Dipper even watched him pick up a stick and twirl it around as a cane. The gesture was uncannily similar to something he’d seen the triangle do, and if there had been any doubt left in Dipper’s mind on who he was following, that would have cinched it.

It felt like Bill should have heard Dipper, like even his furiously pounding heart should have been louder than the wind – but to his great relief Billford never once turned around or gave any sign that he’d noticed being followed. Eventually he stopped in a gently sloping clearing surrounded by oaks and birches, leaning casually on the stick-cane. Dipper hid himself behind a large oak and held his breath, waiting for whatever the demon was waiting for.

It didn’t take long.

“Uncle Ford!” That was Mabel’s voice. Dipper had been right – Bill was really going after her.

“Heya, younger Stan.” That was Wendy. The wind was in Dipper’s direction, and he heard the words clearly. “What are you doing out here? Any trouble?”

“Oh no, no trouble. I just wanted to know if you got the unicorn hair.” He sounded a lot like Stanford. Or like Bill trying to sound like Stanford. Dipper swallowed, hesitating whether he should go out there and warn them immediately or if that would just make things worse. The one thing he had going for himself was the element of surprise, but only if he used it at the right time. He waited.

“Yeah, we did!” Grenda said, easing a worry Dipper would have denied having. And if Bill wanted it, it definitely had to work some kind of magic. Dipper steeled himself, getting ready to jump in before it went too far.

“It’s right here!” Mabel added proudly, but then Dipper could hear her hesitate. “But—”

“Great! Give it to me!”

“Yeah, but—” Mabel was still hesitating. She was smarter than Bill was giving her credit for. “Could you show me your eyes properly, first? I know you wouldn’t want me to give this to Bill, either!”

There was a sound of something thwapping through the air – maybe Bill’s stick – and a surprised yelp, but when Dipper risked peeking around the tree he saw all four of them standing together a good distance away from Bill. Wendy had placed herself protectively in front of Mabel.

Bill laughed. It was the triangle demon’s tinny otherworldly laughter, as if he didn’t even bother trying to use Stanford’s voice any longer. “Very clever, Shooting Star!” he said. “I guess you’ve learned something about not trusting other people, huh?”

“I don’t trust _you_!” Mabel shot back. “We got this hair to get you away from uncle Ford, and you can’t have it! Go away and leave him alone!”

“Why? Fordsy likes having me here! I make him better than all the rest of you meat bags.” He laughed again. “Speaking of which, have you noticed how this guy’s got way too many fingers? Wanna see me break a few of them?” Dipper couldn’t see exactly what he was doing, but he definitely holding up his hands in some way, and it made Dipper feel slightly ill. There was no doubt in his mind that Bill would break his own vessel’s fingers if he thought it’d persuade Mabel, or even if he just thought it was funny.

Dipper clenched his fists. If he could only startle the demon enough to leave an opening, then Mabel or Wendy or someone could help take him down before he did any damage.

“You wouldn’t,” Mabel said, but she’d never _seen_ Bill throw himself down the stairs for fun.

“Give me the unicorn hair and you’re right!”

Dipper left his hiding spot. “Stop it, Bill!” he yelled, running down the slope towards Billford.

Billford didn’t react at all. In the few seconds it took Dipper to reach him he registered how Bill was holding Stanford’s hands locked in front of him, the left pinky bent backwards as far as it would naturally go, still facing the four girls. The girls did see Dipper – Candy gasped loudly, and Mabel cried out his name, but Billford never looked. Instead, he moved the slightest bit backwards and somehow his foot reached out to break Dipper’s run. He tripped and fell face down on the forest floor.

Before he could get his bearings Stanford’s foot kicked him over on his back, then came down hard on his ribs. Everything went gray. He couldn’t breathe.

“So the puppet finally comes out to play!” Dipper heard Billford’s voice somewhere above, filtered through pain and struggles for air. “What took you so long? I’ve been waiting for you!” His chest hurt like fire, and the weight pressing down on him made it hard to focus on anything other than the impossible task of breathing, but Bill had _known_.

The pressure on his chest eased up slightly, making Dipper gasp through aching ribs. He tried to form words, ask how, apologize to Mabel, but nothing came out except a wheeze.

“So what do you say, Shooting Star? Wanna see if your brother’s ribcage can take Sixer’s full weight? He’s pretty light for a full-grown man, but I think—”

“Stop it!” Mabel was practically screaming.

“That’s what I thought. Just give me that hair and no one’s chest is gonna crack open like an egg!”

“Here! Take it!”

“The rest of you, stay back!” Bill warned, even as Dipper registered Mabel coming closer. The pressure on Dipper’s ribs increased again and it _hurt_. He managed to get his hands around Stanford’s ankle, but his arms were even noodlier than usual and Bill probably didn’t even notice. He whimpered as Billford leaned forward and took a large handful of something from Mabel’s outstretched hand.

“Great!” Bill chirped, taking some of the weight off Dipper again. It made it sort of possible to breathe through his battered ribs. He gasped and tugged uselessly at Stanford’s ankle. “You can leave now!”

“I gave you the hair,” Mabel said. “You release my brother.”

Billford lifted his foot slightly from Dipper’s chest before stomping down, hard. Dipper had just enough air in his lungs to scream. “I never said that I would. But I’ll tell you what! I’ll leave him alone once the four of you are too far away to bother me, and that’s a deal! Now back off!”

Mabel backed off.

Bill was going to kill him. Dipper was as certain of that as he’d ever been of anything. Mabel had to know it too, but what could they do? He needed to do something, but it hurt too much to think of anything but getting air into his battered lungs.

Dipper’s eyes were too blurred to see what anyone was doing, but the moment Billford straightened his back and eased up on the pressure again he knew he had once chance and he was going to take it. Somehow he got his fingers around Stanford’s shoe. Expecting to be crushed again any second he used all the strength he didn’t know he had and _pushed_.

Billford didn’t lose his balance or fall over. But he did wobble, and for a second he was more focused on staying upright than on threatening Dipper. That was all the opening Mabel needed.

“Grappling hook!”

The blunt end of the hook hit Billford square in the chest. Stanford’s body fell backwards, away from Dipper, landing on his back with a thud.

The air was sweet, but Dipper still had to get away. He struggled to sit, but his chest hurt, and then Mabel was there. She threw her arms around him, and that hurt too, but he didn’t care. She was sobbing. He’d made Mabel cry. Even that was okay, because she was there and they were both alive.

Dipper was too shocked to cry, but he did put his arms around her back and rest his head on her shoulder, breathing as heavily as he could manage. He vaguely registered Wendy, Grenda and Candy going for Billford, but it was Mabel holding him that made him feel saved.

“I thought he was going to kill you,” Mabel said.

So did he. He didn’t say that. “Mabel—"

“I thought you were going to _die_!”

“I’m sorry, Mabel.”

Mabel took a deep breath and let go of him, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her sweater. “Are you okay, though?”

Dipper gingerly touched his chest. Some spots hurt more than others. It hurt to move, but he _could_ move. He had no idea how to tell if anything was broken, but he could breathe now, and only really deep breaths hurt, so that was probably a good sign. “Yeah,” he told Mabel. “More or less.” He rubbed at his own eyes. Maybe he was crying after all. He was definitely trembling.

Mabel sat back and made a brave attempt to smile. “You’ll be fine!” she said resolutely.

Dipper glanced at Grenda and Wendy, who were holding Billford down and working on tying him up with the rope from the grappling hook. Billford didn’t seem to be struggling at all.

“What happened?” Mabel asked. “Did uncle Ford fall asleep? Where’s grunkle Stan?”

“Grunkle Stan doesn’t know,” Dipper said, feeling ashamed. “It was my fault, Stanford dozed off because I didn’t pay attention. I wanted to warn grunkle Stan, but there was no time – Bill was going into the forest and I thought he was going to hurt you.”

Mabel pursed her lips. “Hurting you is no better, stupid.”

“I know.” He shook his head. “I thought I could surprise him, but I guess he knew I was there the whole time.”

Mabel bumped her forehead to his. “I’m just glad you’re alive, bro-bro.” She rose to her feet. “Can you stand?”

Dipper found that he could, though it made his ribs hurt worse. It was kind of okay if he was very careful. His legs were slightly shaky, but holding Mabel’s hand steadied him. “Is great uncle Stanford alright?” he asked. It wasn’t Stanford’s fault, none of it, and right now he was lying on his side with his eyes closed and his hands tied behind his back and looked nothing but vulnerable. Dipper hated it.

Wendy looked up from finishing a knot and looked relieved. “Dipper, you scared us to death, man. Are you okay?”

“More or less,” Dipper said again, with an aborted attempt at shrugging. Ow.

“Your new uncle really does turn into a demon sometimes,” Grenda said solemnly, getting to her feet and dusting herself off. “I guess it happens. One of my uncles turns into a wolf at full moon, but don’t tell anyone.”

“So yeah, young Stan here is probably alright,” Wendy said, patting Stanford’s shoulder, “But I’m only saying that because he’s no longer glowy-eyed or trying to maim anyone. I _think_ he’s more asleep than unconscious right now, if I’m reading the signs correctly, so that’s good, too. We could probably wake him if we really wanted to.”

“Let’s wait a moment,” Mabel decided. “He needs to sleep!”

Dipper hesitated, but then nodded. It was probably alright. If Bill had left voluntarily, he wasn’t going to come back right away. And if he did, Wendy seemed to have tied him up pretty well.

“Did you tell them about Bill?” he asked Mabel.

“Yeah, we talked about why we needed the unicorn hair.”

“Speaking of unicorn hair,” Candy said, looking up from the grass nearby. “I found some of it before it blew away.” She frowned. “But most of it is now gone. It fell into the wind when the demon uncle dropped it.” She showed a lump of very fine, shimmering hair.

“Thanks, Candy,” Mabel said. “That’s definitely better than nothing, and it’s more important than ever now! We’re not going to let this happen again.”

“Definitely not,” Dipper agreed. The lump in Candy’s hand looked awfully small, though. “But is that going to be enough? It doesn’t look like it would reach around the Shack.”

“Maybe it will reach around a room,” Candy suggested.

“Do you think the unicorn could give you any more if you went back and asked?”

Mabel looked down. “Well,” she said. “probably not.”

“That unicorn turned out to be a jerk,” Wendy explained.

“She was the most not-pure-of-heart one,” Candy added.

“Grunkle Stan was right, though,” Mabel said, “I was upset at first, but I didn’t let it mess with me.” She smiled crookedly. “She didn’t exactly _give_ us the hair.”

“We knocked her out with fairy dust and stole it!” Grenda said, raising her arms for emphasis. “So she probably won’t let us into her glade anymore.”

Dipper blinked. He hadn’t quite expected that. “Heh,” he said, grinning back at Mabel. “That’s pretty bad-ass, though.” He offered her a fist bump, and she returned it.

A groan from below made them all look down. Stanford was blinking groggily and shifting around as if trying the ropes that bound him. His eyes seemed to be human when he looked up, but they were more bloodshot than ever, and as he blinked again a trail of blood ran like a tear from the right one. He looked like a deer in the headlights.

“What did he do?” he whispered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kh kdv hbhv zlwklq wkh wuhhv.


	8. Aftermath

Stanford was standing in a colorless field scattered with ruins. He knew enough to recognize his own mindscape immediately, though it hadn’t always been so dismal. Not too long ago, he’d been coming here regularly while meditating. It wasn’t real, except in the sense that it _was_.

If he was here now, it meant he was asleep. He’d been complacent and careless and he was _asleep_.

He closed his eyes, trying to find his own body. Perhaps it wasn’t too late – if he was still just on the verge of sleep he might be able to pull himself back.

Nothing.

“Really, Sixer?” Bill’s voice came crystal clear from somewhere behind him. Ford spun around reflexively, much steadier on his feet in his mind than he was in reality. The golden triangle he used to worship as a muse was sitting casually on top of the remains of a stone wall, looking down at him with an amused eye.

“Get out of here.” It was more a growl than a sentence. He knew perfectly well that nothing he could say or do would make the demon leave before it wanted to, but that didn’t mean he had to accept it. His hands were already turning into useless fists at his sides.

“That’s cute!” Bill said. “You acting like you have any say in the matter even though you know better!”

Ford glared at him.

“But really, Sixer?” Bill repeated. “You’re cozying it up with a family? Do you really think they’ll help you? They lock you up, give you a pancake, babble at you for an hour and you forget everything you’ve learned? I’d say I was disappointed if I didn’t already know how easy you are!” He left his perch and floated down to hover in front of Ford’s face. “By the way, did you notice that your brother has ruined all your hard work _again_? Brothers, am I right!”

Stanford clenched his teeth. Bill wasn’t wrong, exactly. Ford had been careless, and he should have known better. He knew only too well that it wasn’t sustainable. His life as he had known it had already been over for a while even before he went through the portal, and what Stanley had done only enhanced the point. But Stanley had still saved him. He tried to cling to that fact.

Bill laughed, though Ford hadn’t said anything out loud. “He only saved you from the pit he pushed you into himself! And only after living your life for thirty years and turning you into a mockery of yourself! Oh, and creating this little hole in reality.” He raised a hand and manifested a copy of the jar containing the captured rift. “It’s hilarious! It’s everything you didn’t want, and you still feel grateful!”

Bill was throwing Ford’s own thoughts back at him. It stung like truth, but Bill was a liar.

“Sure, I’m a liar. Every lie is true when you believe it.”

He needed to wake up, _now_. His body was out there somewhere, and Bill could reach it easier than he could from here. “What do you want, Bill?” he asked.

“Nothing.” Bill shrugged, his small black arms bobbing on his triangle sides. “I’m just saying! Family can betray you! **A n d  y o u  c a n  b e t r a y  t h e m**.”

 

* * *

A gust of wind tugged at Ford’s hair. It smelled like woodlands and dirt and reality. There was grass against his cheek, and his right eye was throbbing with every heartbeat. He was back. He couldn’t tell how long it had been, but Bill was done with him for now. It should have been a relief, but it wasn’t.

If there was blood on his hands, it wouldn’t be his own this time.

He wanted to scream. Instead he forced himself to open his eyes, blinking against the light. Natural daylight, clouded sky. There were people around him, voices. He tried to rub his eyes, but found his hands tied behind his back, a discovery that came with its own rising panic. The throbbing pain across his chest and stomach had increased in a way that made him suspect he’d been punched. Surely not undeservedly.

He blinked again, feeling a trickle of warm blood running from his right eye, before managing to clear his eyes enough to look up.

Dipper was there, smudged with dirt and his face tense, with one hand over his chest and the other holding his sister’s. Mabel’s face was damp like she’d been crying. Mabel’s three friends looked down at him with wariness or fear. He didn’t see Stanley, or anyone else. Just the children.

Ford found his voice. “ _What did he do_?”

The twins looked unhappily at each other, but no one spoke. It had to mean the worst. Did he break the rift? Did he kill someone? Did he—

“Don’t freak out, man!” The redhead teen – Wendy – was kneeling beside him and waved her hands placatingly. “No one died, okay! It could have been like, a million times worse!”

Ford managed to take a deep breath, turning his face down towards the ground. No one died. They still wouldn’t tie him up and look at him like this if nothing had happened.

“He _tried_ to kill Dipper,” Mabel said. “But we stopped him.”

That would explain some of it. Ford looked back up, specifically at Dipper. The boy was standing upright, and he couldn’t see any blood, but the clenched set of his jaws might mean he was in pain. It could have been so much worse, but Ford couldn’t shake the tightness in his lungs. If he was Bill’s plaything, so were everyone around him, too, and Bill was right. He shouldn’t – he _didn’t_ – have a family. No family should have _him_.

Ford tugged at the ropes behind his back, but whoever had tied them had done a good job, and he half-registered some gratitude to Stanley’s bandage that protected his left wrist. He shifted to try to sit up without the use of his arms. Somehow he managed, despite the pain spiking somewhere around his solar plexus. He needed to—

He didn’t know what he needed to do. He needed to keep Bill away from these children, but he couldn’t trust himself to even do that. “I’m sorry,” he said, sitting hunched over his folded legs. “I should never have allowed that to happen.” He had _relaxed_. Distracted by enthusiasm and memories of fascinating nonsense. He wanted to throw up.

Someone’s hand touched his back, supporting him.  “So,” Wendy said beside him, “Do you feel any less demon-y now or what?”

He stared at her. “I—Yes. It’s an either/or situation. He’s not possessing me at the moment.”

“Good,” she said. “’Cause I’m gonna call Stan right now.”

“Wait! Could you—” Ford stopped, knowing better. Of course she wouldn’t untie him, and she’d be right not to. Whatever had happened exactly, Ford had just attacked them. He just wished he could wipe the blood off his face.

Wendy got up and walked a few steps away, though Ford couldn’t fathom where she expected to find a phone in the middle of the forest. Apparently she did, though, because seconds later she held something like a receiver in her hand and was talking intently into it.

“Stan? Yes, it’s me. Yeah. Yeah, I know! Because they’re out here with us. Yeah. Well, yeah, but—”

Ford lost track of the teenager’s voice when two smaller arms wrapped themselves around his stiff shoulders. “It’s okay, uncle Ford,” Mabel said. “We all know it wasn’t you! It was Bill.”

He couldn’t even push her away with his arms tied up. She squeezed just hard enough against his wounds to be painful. “Of course it was Bill,” he said tightly. “But I allowed him into my mind in the first place. You need to stay away from me.” He glanced at Dipper who was still standing where he’d been, like he preferred not to move at all.

Mabel released him and pointed a finger at his nose. “No,” she said. “We need to stay away from _Bill_. Not from you!”

Ford huffed at the distinction, but then he remembered. That tiny bit of hope, was it still— “The unicorn hair – did you get it?”

Mabel’s grimace made his heart sink, even though she nodded. “Yes, we did. But then Bill wanted it too, so I guess that’s why he came out here to find us.”

Stanford let his head fall forward in silent despair. That made sense. The only question was why Bill hadn’t gone directly for the rift, but of course he wouldn’t allow his favorite toy to get a sanctuary. “So what happened to it?” he asked, afraid that he knew the answer.

“Well, a lot of it got scattered in the wind, but Candy managed to save some! So it’ll be fine.”

Ford forced himself take a deep breath, trying to get some relief through. He wondered how much ‘some’ could be. Enough for a house? A room? A bed? He’d take it, it’d be enough. If it could stop Bill from using his exhaustion against him again— It was difficult to believe in, but Bill had tried to prevent it and partly failed. It had to mean something. It had to _work_. “Thank you,” he said quietly.

“You’re welcome.” Mabel smiled.

“Great uncle Stanford?” Dipper said uncertainly. “I just—I’m sorry.”

Ford blinked. His right eye was still blurry with blood. “Why would _you_ be sorry?”

“I should have noticed you were falling asleep and I should have called for help before it was too late and—” his voice shrunk “—I shouldn’t have been so boring that you fell asleep in the first place.”

The first points might be true, but the last one was preposterous. Ford shook his head. “It’s the other way around, Dipper. If you had been boring I wouldn’t have been able to relax as far as I did.” He took a deep breath again. “I dropped my guard. You nearly had to pay for it.”

Dipper opened his mouth to say something more, but was interrupted by Wendy coming back to their side of the clearing.

“Listen up!” Wendy said. “Stan is on his way – he’ll be here in ten minutes, tops. He was low-key freaking out over you two—” she pointed two fingers at Ford and Dipper “—being gone from the Shack, but I think I managed to convince him no one was dead or horribly maimed.”

Right. Stanley was fine. Bill hadn’t hurt him. Ford closed his eyes, trying to think. Stanley hadn’t even known about this, but what would he do, being informed that Ford had allowed Bill to hurt the children under his care? Ford had tried to warn him. He’d _known_ there wasn’t much time. This was always a possibility, but somehow Stanley had tried to make him believe the danger was alleviated. It wasn’t. Stanley had to understand that now, but what would it make him do?

He’d barely had any caffeine at all today. Maybe that’s why he was shaking.

He vaguely registered Wendy asking Dipper if he wanted her to check his ribs. Dipper declined awkwardly, but Wendy insisted that he’d at least allow Stan to do it when he arrived. There seemed to be some likelihood of cracked or broken ribs, so Bill had definitely done some damage to the boy.

Ford didn’t say anything. His eye burned. He could have asked how Dipper’s injuries were inflicted, but he could just as easily imagine. Talking about it wouldn’t change matters. Neither would sitting around, although his options were limited. The fact that his hands were literally tied shouldn’t have made it harder to think, but it did.

He steeled himself and managed to work his legs to stand up, though he wobbled and almost fell over as a wave of dizziness came over him. The girls closest to him practically jumped – Grenda looked ready to fight him, and even Mabel took a step back.

“What are you doing?” Candy asked as intimidatingly as a small prepubescent girl could manage.

“Standing,” Ford replied curtly. “I’m also considering pacing.” He wriggled his tied hands behind his back and added before he could stop himself, “I assume you’re not going to remove this.”

The smaller girls all looked at Wendy, who grimaced. “Meh,” she said. “The demon can only get to you when you’re asleep, right? So I guess you’re not just going to turn around and assault us?”

“Definitely not.” He kept his voice even.

“Are you okay with it, Dipper?”

“Of course,” Dipper said, perhaps too quickly. “It’s not his fault this happened.”

“Agreed!” Mabel said.

Ford could have argued. It was his fault in a several very real ways. But he said nothing, and when Wendy shrugged and went to cut his bonds off, he found himself breathing a shaky sigh of real relief. He wiped some of the drying blood off his face and rubbed at his aching eye, then flexed his hands in front of him to confirm that the blood flow hadn’t been obstructed – realizing too late that at least two of the girls probably hadn’t seen his hands properly before. Candy and Grenda were both staring.

“Yes, twelve fingers,” he told them tiredly, holding both hands up. “It’s a birth defect, not related to Bill or any other demon.”

“That is not a defect,” Candy said, still big-eyed, pointing at his hands to emphasize. “That is an improvement over just ten fingers!”

“Yeah,” Grenda agreed, showcasing her own stocky hands. “Fingers are like, the more the better!”

“We will watch out for yellow eyes,” Candy promised, “But many fingers are good.”

Stanford’s shoulders relaxed a fraction of an inch before he caught himself. These were weird kids – Gravity Falls kids – but they shouldn’t be anywhere near him. Frankly, they should watch out for the many fingers as well. He wasn’t safe, for himself or for anyone.

Ford sighed and did start pacing, walking a wide circle around the group of children. He didn’t try to talk to them. He shouldn’t even be here. He was a disaster waiting to happen again, but at the same time he was the only one who could possibly save the world from a worse disaster. He had to stop procrastinating. The rift had to be sealed, and the portal dismantled so that it couldn’t be used again for any purpose. The journals should be re-hidden, too. He might have a second chance at preventing the end of the world, but not if he allowed himself to be distracted and careless.

The kids were waiting for Stanley, a delay that seemed to be mainly out of concern for Dipper, who looked more and more pale and tight-jawed by the minute. Adrenaline wearing off, most likely. He kept standing stiffly, not moving more than a few steps and mostly just talking quietly to his sister. Ford considered getting the unicorn hair from the girl carrying it and going straight back to his house – Stanley’s house – without waiting, but it had been thirty years and he had no real idea where in the forest he was. He might not find his way without a guide. At least when pacing he wasn’t completely idle.

 

* * *

Stan was crashing through the forest like a clumsy cryptid dressed in nothing but boxers and undershirt. If he wasn’t quite as panicked as he’d been when racing back to the portal the night before, it was only because this time, at least, he had an idea of what he’d find when he arrived. Sure, his blood had turned into ice when he’d discovered that Ford and Dipper were both gone, but it was thawing out now, after Wendy’s phone call. They were alright. Ford was back to himself and Dipper wasn’t—Ford’s demon hadn’t killed anyone.

He should never have left Ford alone with the kid. He’d known this could happen, he just didn’t think—it had seemed like a good idea, and he’d been close by himself, most of the time in the very next room. But Ford wasn’t _well_ , and Dipper might be clever but he never knew when to stay away. The knowledge of what could have happened was burning like fire, making him go faster.

It was a great relief to reach the clearing that Wendy had directed him to and see them with his own eyes. Dipper and Mabel were standing together – she looked fine and smiled when she saw Stan; he was vaguely leaning on her and seemed more pale and tense than usual but definitely not immediately dying – with Wendy, Candy and Grenda around them. Stan’s heart skipped a beat when he didn’t see Ford at first, but he turned out to be standing off to the side, some distance away from the kids.

Stan closed the distance to his brother before thinking. “Stanford!” he exclaimed, half relieved and half worried his brother was about to bolt like a wounded animal. Ford was stiff like a scarecrow, and his right eye wasn’t just bloodshot, but seemed to have been outright bleeding recently. Both eyes looked human, but hollow and hard. “What happened?” He just needed to know that Ford was alright – not hurt, not possessed, not about to disappear into the void again. “Did you—did he—”

Ford took a small step backwards, away from Stan. “Bill possessed me again,” he said, quietly, like it was hard to get the words out. Like he was ashamed. Well, there were definitely things he should be ashamed of, but this one couldn’t have been anything but an accident from his side.

“I know that!” Stan said. “Wendy told me.” Even if she hadn’t, he would have guessed. “It doesn’t matter.” He put his hands on Ford’s shoulders, feeling a slight tremble under his fingers. “I was— I thought—” There probably existed words for what he wanted to communicate, but he couldn’t have found them if his life depended on it. “You’re alright,” he said instead. Whether he was trying to reassure Ford or himself was unclear. “Everything will be fine.”

Ford didn’t seem reassured. He took another few steps back, getting out of reach of Stan’s arms. “You don’t know that.”

Stan raised a finger, partly wanting to argue – it _was_ going to be fine, dammit – but glancing at the kids, he decided it could wait. Instead he just pointed at Ford. “If you disappear anywhere, I’ll _kill_ you.”

Ford opened his mouth, probably to accuse him of being nonsensical, but Stan turned his back on him and went over to Dipper.

“Are you okay, kid?” he asked, kneeling in front of him. “How bad is it?”

Dipper tried to take a deep breath and winced. “Well, my ribs hurt,” he mumbled with a grimace that might even have been embarrassed. “I’m sorry, grunkle Stan, I made a mess of things.”

Stan waved the apology away. It was Dipper’s fault even less than it was Ford’s. “Take your vest off,” he said gruffly. “I need to check for damage. And can anyone tell me how exactly it happened?”

“Bill _stomped_ on him,” Mabel said hotly while Dipper shrugged his vest off with small hiss of pain.

Stan narrowed his eyes. Wendy had already told him on the phone that it’d been a hostage situation and that Mabel had managed to hit Ford with the grappling hook before it was too late – he could picture it only too clearly. “Nothing else?”

“He was threatening to put his whole weight down and crush his ribs like an egg,” Candy added helpfully. “But it did not happen.”

Stan grunted. A quick examination later and he judged that at least two ribs were cracked and a few more were either cracked or bruised, but at least nothing was outright broken in a way that would threaten his lungs. There would be no need to go to a hospital, which was a relief in its own way. He hated seeing the kid like this, but the problem was mundane, something he was actually confident he could handle.

“It’ll heal,” he told Dipper. “We’ll get you some painkillers and some rest.”

“Thanks, grunkle Stan,” Mabel said, spontaneously moving in to hug him. Stan froze for just a moment, but then he wrapped one of his own arms around her and put the other loosely around Dipper, pulling both of them into his lap and held them close until he could feel some of the tension in them drain away. Maybe some of his own tension as well.

“I’m proud of you for handling that,” he said eventually. “I’m sorry you had to, but I’m proud that you did.” He looked up at the other girls. “You rascals, too. You did good.”

“Heh,” Wendy said. “Does that mean I get a raise?”

Stan rolled his eyes. “No way.” He sighed. “Let’s go home.”

Mabel agreed and jumped off him, hurrying off to pull Ford back from whatever thoughts he’d been pacing back and forth with. She was such a good kid. Stan got to his feet but stopped Dipper from doing the same, instead opting to carry him.

“I _can_ walk,” Dipper protested half-heartedly.

“Sure you can, but you don’t have to.” Stan huffed. “Don’t argue, kiddo.” Surprisingly and perhaps worryingly, he didn’t.

Stan tried to talk to Ford on the way back, but his young twin deliberately kept his distance from the rest of the group. He did keep pace with them, but he didn’t say a word, and Stan didn’t get the opportunity to try to engage when carrying one child and having a gaggle of them around him that also wanted his attention, whether to tell him more details about what had happened with Bill or telling him about the unicorn, since it seemed his hunch about the thing had been right after all. Candy was carrying what was left of the unicorn hair, and when that was mentioned Stan did notice Ford looking at them, but he still didn’t say anything.

When they finally got back to the Shack, they were met with Soos and the smell of fresh tacos in the doorway. The handyman had promised to cook something right after Wendy’s phone call, arguing that it was past lunchtime and everyone would need it when they got back, not least the “younger Mr Pines”, and Stan was quietly grateful.

Mabel was less quiet about it. “Yay! Food!” she shouted and rushed into the kitchen without waiting for anyone.

“Go ahead, dood,” Soos said to her back, then laughed a little. “Yeah, you too,” he told Wendy, Grenda and Candy who had gotten into the hall but no further. “I guess I thought tacos would be good for everyone after an adventure and all. Hope you’re okay with treating them, Mr Pines.” Stan frowned as Soos ushered all three of the girls over to the bowls of taco components on the kitchen table, but no, at the moment he didn’t mind at all.

Ford slipped past Stan without a word and disappeared into the kitchen as well, but not necessarily for the food. “The unicorn hair,” Stan could hear him say – no, demand – even while Stan was putting Dipper down, trying to ignore the strain in his back. The next moment Ford was storming away from the kitchen again, nearly colliding with Stan in the doorway.  

Stan grabbed his arm. “Hey, where ya going?”

“I’m going to set up the barrier,” Ford said. He nodded at the lump of shining hair in his hand. “Right now.”

Stan didn’t let go. “You need to _eat_ , Poindexter.” Setting the barrier up would take a lot longer than eating a taco, and considering how little Ford had managed to eat earlier, he might have been literally starving and not just eating badly. Sure, he had reason to be upset – they were _all_ upset – but that didn’t mean he had to keep hurting himself.

Ford’s eyes narrowed. “I _need_ to set up the barrier,” he repeated tightly. “Whose side are you on, Stanley?”

That was unfair. “You’re a genius, Stanford, what do you _think_? I’m trying to—” He closed his mouth. Ford was staring at him with bloodshot and dark-ringed eyes, and he was wearing that same look of terrified determination as he had in the bedroom last night. He should never have to be that scared, but Stan could hardly say he didn’t understand. The episode had scared all of them, and Ford was right – the barrier was important, now more than ever.

“Fine,” he said. “We’ll do the barrier first.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Can you wait just a second, though?” He turned to Dipper, who was looking at both of them like he wanted to say something but wasn’t sure if he should. He probably shouldn’t. “Painkillers are in the cabinet. Ice helps with swelling, or you can use some frozen food if we don’t have ice.”

“I’m okay,” Dipper said, reminding Stan of nothing so much as that one time when he himself had broken his collarbone as an eleven-year-old and decided there was no need for anyone to fuss over him. “Don’t worry about me – you two go fix that barrier.”

Mabel appeared next to her brother with two filled tacos. “Yep,” she said to Stan. “We’ll be fine. Here’s your lunch, bro-bro.” She handed him one of the tacos and he accepted it gingerly while she took a large bite out of the other one.

Ford turned to the kids for a moment. “I’m sorry,” he told them. “I won’t let this happen again.” With that, he tore himself away from Stan’s loose grip and hurried down the corridor.

Stan had to almost run to catch up. This would definitely be a lot easier if Ford wasn’t so completely on edge, but if it had to be done now, so be it. “Well then,” he said, “where do you figure we should put it up?”

Ford replied without stopping or looking at him. “There’s not enough hair for the whole house, but there should be enough for the bedroom.”

That’s the answer Stan had expected, but it wasn’t a good idea for a bunch of reasons. He tried to stop Ford with a hand on his shoulder, but Ford shrugged it off. He tried again with more force. “Stanford, _wait_.”

Ford spun around. “What is it?”

“This barrier is gonna be kinda permanent if it works, right?”

“Yes.”

“So we should pick the best room for it, and my bedroom isn’t it.” Maybe that was selfish, but it was still true. “It’s full of my junk that’s been piling up over thirty years, and—"

Ford glared at him. “If not the bedroom, then where?”

Stan pointed at the intricately carved door they had been rapidly approaching. “I used to keep that room boarded up. It’s still mostly full of your stuff.”

“The ground floor study?”

“If that’s what you called it, sure.”

Ford nodded slowly, and Stan went ahead to open the door. “The kids played with the creepy carpet, so I took it away for the time being,” he said, not quite an apology. The carpet _was_ creepy, but he had to admit it was less creepy than some of the stuff Ford had been messing with. “And Soos has been using this room for some hobby projects for the last few weeks, but he’ll do that somewhere else if I tell him.” He gestured vaguely at the disassembled electrical engine on the table. “Other than that, it should be more or less like it was thirty years ago. There’s even some of your books that I never touched.” It was the more esoteric stuff, neither relevant for the portal nor interesting on their own. Most of Ford’s library could probably be reassembled from around the Shack, but these books would be the least worn ones. There was also some of Ford’s furniture that had never had to be repurposed, and since Soos had rediscovered it and cleaned it out so recently, they didn’t even have to deal with thirty years’ worth of accumulated dust.

This room hadn’t been a good idea last night – the couch didn’t have a convenient headboard for one thing – but this was the room Stan still tended to think of as Ford’s. Sometimes he’d dreamt that Ford was in there. Those hadn’t been happy dreams, but still, it only seemed right. “What do you think?”

It might have been Stan’s imagination, but he thought something in Ford’s stance was deflating. “Yes— Yes.” Ford took a deep breath. “You’re right, it still looks like – mine.” There was a twinge of some undefinable emotion in his voice.

Stan shrugged. “There’s no bed, of course, but we can get one, and there’s the couch for—”

“It’s perfect.” Ford’s face was still determined, but some of the desperation had eased.

Stan found himself grinning. He went up to Ford’s side in the middle of the room and patted his brother’s shoulder. “Great. Let’s demon-proof this room, then.”


	9. The Barrier Spell

Stanford held his breath before linking the final part of the perimeter. There was still a non-zero percent chance that nothing would happen. The spell could be a dud, and Bill could have staged the whole thing to show Ford just how useless it was to have hope. It wouldn’t be beyond him to do such a thing.

Touching the final strands of hair together produced a satisfying glow, though, a shimmer that went around the whole room and fused the arrangement laid out by the baseboards into a faintly shining line. Ford’s breath was released as a shaky sigh.

The spell was real. It definitely did something. But ‘something’ wasn’t enough. – he’d never be able to rely on it unless he knew for sure that it was powerful enough to block _Bill_.

Stanley rose and stretched his back. “I like it already,” he said. “You feel any better?”

“I still don’t know if it works,” Ford said curtly, drumming a finger on the floor next to the glowing line. There was one obvious way to test it. It wouldn’t even be difficult as such. But if the barrier didn’t work, it wouldn’t just mean that this whole distraction had been for less than nothing – it would mean openly surrendering to Bill’s face.

Stanley frowned. “It did the magic light-up show, didn’t it?”

Ford slowly got to his feet. “It’s certainly a metaphysical barrier, but there’s no guarantee that it keeps Bill out. I’ll have to test it, and—”

“You think it might not work after all?” Stanley had the sense to look worried. “Even after Bill went through all that trouble to take the unicorn hair away?”

“It could have been a trick. To torment me. I need to _know_.”

“You also need to _eat_.”

“Not right now.” Ford waved it away. He didn’t feel hungry. He still felt exhausted and vulnerable and a few other things that he’d rather not name, but the thought of a meaty taco made him nauseous enough that he was quite sure he didn’t need food to survive just yet. “Right now I need to ascertain whether Bill’s invitation to my mind extends inside this barrier or not.” He moved over to the couch and sat down, rubbing the corners of his eyes. The right one had almost stopped stinging.

Stanley grunted. “So – you’re gonna try to sleep?”

“No, no.” Ford shook his head. Sleep was much more difficult to control, and besides, he wasn’t sure he could make himself fall asleep at all at the moment. “It would be more efficient to—to summon him.”

“Summon him?” Stanley’s eyebrows rose. “Really?”

“I’m not talking about the full summoning ceremony, but there are certain meditational practices I can use to consciously enter my own mindscape.” Bill had taught him how, and the sheer joy he had felt over the ability to explore spaces other human beings would never see was in itself enough to bring a sour taste to his mouth. Bill used to make him so _happy_. “If the barrier works, Bill won’t be able to meet me there.”

“I see. So if it doesn’t work, he _will_ be there?”

“Yes.” Ford clenched his fists in his lap. “Then I will have actively invited him in again. I’ll still be conscious, so I might be able to fight back to some extent, but I’m not sure.” He looked at Stanley, then at the wall next to him. “I’ve never tried this since it stopped being—consensual.”

He snapped his jaws shut. This was literally inviting disaster, and all Stanley would have to do to embrace it would be _nothing at all_. It would be so easy for all of this to be a trick. Bill would love to see Ford humiliate himself before the inevitable end. It would be safer to trust no one, stay vigilant and never sleep, never relax, keep him _out_ —

“Stanford?” Stanley’s voice made him realize he wasn’t breathing at all. “You do know I’m here to help, right?”

“I know that.” Ford tried to take a deep breath, but he was shaking too hard. Bill was right about him. He was forgetting what he’d learned about trust. Even Fiddleford had walked out on him. And Stanley had—had done so many things. And the grey-haired semi-stranger before him _was_ Stanley. Who had saved his life, and insisted on helping. Except Bill had still taken him, so it was no use. He couldn’t involve other people in this any further. Stanley should have left when he had the chance. But he had stayed – for thirty years.

“You know what?” Stanley said suddenly. “Wait here – I’ll be back in a moment.”

Ford stared after him. A few heartbeats later, he finally exhaled and slowly dragged a hand through his hair. There was a book in the pile on the floor next to the fake mantelpiece that he remembered had been due back to the Gravity Falls public library in November. November 1981. Almost thirty-one years ago. He wondered if the debt accumulated on such things. He wondered why he even cared enough to wonder.

Stanley reappeared before long, holding two cans of Pitt cola and a chocolate bar, shuffling over to sit down next to Ford on the couch and handing him the chocolate and one of the cans. “I’ve got a secret stash of those,” Stanley said, indicating the chocolate. “Don’t tell the kids. Anyway, it’s energy. It’s hard to think when your brain’s run out of steam – trust me, I’ve been there, done that.”

“Oh.” Ford truly didn’t feel hungry. Most of the symptoms he could register in himself came down to injuries or prolonged lack of restful sleep – the body ache, the low-key headache, the trembling – but perhaps he would be able to stomach a piece of chocolate. He ran his fingers over the condensation on the soda can. “What I should be having is coffee.”

“What you should be having is some goddamn _calories_.”

This was procrastination again. Ford was putting things off. But some energy didn’t sound like a bad idea all things considered, so he sighed softly and unwrapped the chocolate bar, forcing himself to nibble on it. It didn’t taste like much, but it wasn’t as difficult to swallow as it could have been.

Stanley sighed beside him and took a swig of his own soda in silence.

Ford stared emptily at his study while he ate. _His_ , not Stanley’s, despite everything. It took a while to finish the chocolate bar and most of the soda, but the quick energy did make it somewhat easier to gather his wits.

“Did that help at all?” Stanley asked.

“Yes,” Ford admitted. “Thanks.” The last word was a mere mumble. He still wanted coffee – he was still a danger to everything, and more so without caffeine – but he’d regained enough determination to do what had to be done, first.

Stanley shrugged. “So – you wanna try the barrier out by inviting Bill into your head while you’re in here to confirm that he can’t come. And just in case he does, we’ll have to make sure we don’t get him running loose here again.”

Ford leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees, and took a deep breath. “Yes. Exactly.” It sounded reasonable enough when Stanley said it. “You will need to restrain me again. The handcuffs you used last night will do.” He hated it, but it would hinder Bill, or at least delay him.

Stanley frowned, but nodded. “I got them right here,” he revealed, fishing the cuffs out from a pocket in his boxers. Apparently he’d already anticipated the request, or did he always carry handcuffs in his underwear? “But are you sure? We could try to use duct tape instead, or—”

“I’m sure.” Handcuffs were simple. He didn’t want to have to think about it too much.

“Right. It’ll just be for a few minutes if everything works.”

And if it didn’t, being uncomfortably restrained would be the least of Stanford’s problems. He looked around for a suitable position, deciding on the bend of the couch. “I’ll sit on the floor over there, and you’ll cuff both wrists behind my back around one of the couch’s legs,” he said with a sharp nod. While the couch wasn’t attached to the floor, it was quite heavy, and trying to lift it to free himself from that position would be a challenge even for Bill.

“Sure,” Stanley said. “Just tell me when you’re ready.”

Ford took a deep breath and slowly got to his feet. He went over to the mantel, picking up the pyramid prism that sat there and turned it around in his hands, watching the light shift within it in an all too familiar way. He kept – he _had_ kept – this one up here to be able to contact Bill more easily from the above-ground parts of the house. He could technically meditate and visit his mindscape without a focus object, but Bill had instructed him to use the pyramids for their inherent association with him, and in these circumstances he couldn’t risk simply failing to get Bill’s attention. He had to do this properly.

Holding the prism so tight that one of the points dug painfully into the palm of his hand, Ford went on to open a drawer at the bottom of the filing cabinet. It was gratifying to note that it still contained what he had put in there, including three small candles and a box of matches.

Putting the equipment down on the floor, he placed the candles in a semi-circle around the prism and lit them, then seated himself cross-legged on the floor by the bend of the couch.

The prism turned yellow in the flickering light. An eye twinkled mirthfully at him from its depths. Ford flinched.

“Stanford?”

 _No_. Ford stared at the prism, shaking his head. There was nothing there. There _shouldn’t_ be anything there. Not if he was fully awake, and especially not if the barrier worked. If it wasn’t a trick of the light, Bill was already mocking him for what he was about to do. “I’m fine,” he told Stanley. “I’m ready.” Both were lies. He put his hands on either side of the couch leg behind him and allowed Stanley to restrain him, hoping his small shudder wasn’t too obvious.

Ford’s left wrist was protected by the bandage, and Stanley was careful to put the right cuff over his shirt sleeve, folding it back over the restraint to keep the cloth from slipping away immediately. Of course Bill would still be able to hurt him, but it would be difficult for the demon to get loose to hurt anyone else. There was absolutely no need to panic.

“Stanley—” His brother’s name came out as a plea, but for what, he wasn’t sure.

Stanley huffed. “Go look for him in your mind space or whatever. _If_ he turns up, he’ll have to go through me if he wants to mess with you or anyone in this family again.”

That was such a ridiculously Stanley thing to say. It was alarmingly reassuring. Ford swallowed. “Are you staying?”

“Do you want me to leave?”

“No!” Ford blurted, far too quickly. “Watch me. And look _closely_ when I open my eyes again.”

“Roger that.” Stanley sat down on the floor beyond the candles.

Ford took several deep breaths, fixing his eyes on the prism and the candlelight flickering in colors within it. Stanley’s aged visage filled his peripheral vision – distracting, but somehow also grounding. He could do this.

Reaching the trance took longer than it used to. Meditation required a certain kind of presence of mind, a way of relaxing without growing unaware, and he’d let himself slip too far to have that state easily available. He knew that, and it didn’t help that the sheer familiarity of the exercise disgusted him. But at the same time, he knew what he was doing too well for it to be overly difficult, even now. Eventually he felt the familiar sensation of falling through the prism, and when he looked around, he was no longer in his study.

 

Ford’s mindscape was just as it had been – a grey-scale landscape filled with the ruins of vaguely recognizable structures scattered on a field of dry grass. The nightmare portal he had created loomed larger than life in the distance, and the sky was a starless boiling darkness above.

The crippling exhaustion was gone along with the aches and pains of his physical body, but the world of the mind did nothing to nullify the creeping sense of dread.

It was eerily quiet.

Stanford turned around slowly, one step at the time, looking for the telltale golden glow that signaled Bill’s presence, listening for a high-pitched laughter wafting through the air, but there was nothing. Seconds stretched into minutes without a sound.

He started walking, slowly at first, then faster. His footsteps on the soft ground were too quiet to break the silence even when walking at a brisk pace, but he still expected the stillness to be broken any moment.

His own memories flashed by through gaping windows and broken holes in the ruins, whether he wanted to see them or not. He glimpsed an eleven-year-old Stanley getting between Ford and Crampelter. A 30-year-old Stanley in a dirty red jacket screaming silently as the console ward was branded into his shoulder. Fiddleford falling limply from the portal with wide open, dilated eyes.

 _Bill_.

Ford flinched, stopping and staring at the last one, but it was a mute Bill, silenced by the broken window pane separating them. Bill from the past. A memory, not real unless he chose to interact with it. He turned away.

If Bill was here, he was uncharacteristically quiet. He’d expected to be mocked by now.

“Bill!” he yelled, spreading his arms wide. “Bill! I’m here! I’m inside the damned barrier you didn’t want me to set up! Do you have anything to say about that?”

Nothing. The mindscape returned to silence as soon as Ford stopped talking.

“Bill Cipher!” he shouted, even louder, almost daring to believe. “You goddamn fucking triangle demon _bastard_!”

Still nothing.

Ford lowered his arms. If his projected body had been real, he didn’t doubt his heart would have been pounding furiously.

He might actually be alone. Alone in his own mind, perhaps for the first time.

“Hah.” He surprised himself by chuckling. He surprised himself even more when the chuckle turned into full-out laughter, and he couldn’t stop. He fell to his knees, still laughing, fisting his hands in the dry grass, and Bill still didn’t appear.

It worked. Bill had truly tried and failed to stop it. Bill had _failed_. He couldn’t believe it, but it was the truth. Bill couldn’t reach him. Right now, right here, he was _safe_.

 

* * *

The candles would be in the way if Stan was going to watch Ford, so he blew them out soon after his brother’s eyes had closed and his breathing had evened out, pushing them and the prism aside. After that, all he could do was hunch his back over his crossed legs and wait for however long it would take.

His gut told him the barrier would work, but Ford’s wide-eyed fear did make him worry about the alternative. If it _didn’t_ work – if it really didn’t keep the demon out of Ford’s mind... No. They’d figure out some other way. He didn’t bring his brother back from the void just to have him destroyed from the inside by some demonic asshole. That was not happening.

Besides, it _would_ work, and Ford just needed to sort himself out. Scientific method or whatever.

Stan held back a yawn. He might not have been running on fumes and fear for weeks, unlike someone else, but it wasn’t like he was in the habit of getting a good night’s sleep. And the last few nights had been particularly intense.

More than worth it, though. He’d done it – Ford was _back_. He needed to repeat that to himself, hoping that it’d sink in sooner or later. It was hard to believe, hard to know what to do with himself now that he’d never have to think about that abysmal portal again. The possible apocalypse seemed like a load of baloney compared to the fact that the real Stanford Pines – the one who was not a fraud and a lifelong failure – was sitting in front of him, flesh and blood. He’d done it.

For once since his return, Ford looked at peace, too. Back straight, legs crossed, arms hidden behind him, and despite the uneven brown stubble that covered his chin and cheeks his face seemed calmer – more _natural_ – than it had been since he came through the portal. Gaunt, yes, and his closed eyes were still surrounded by bruise-like circles, but serene.

And so goddamn young.

Stan unconsciously touched his own face, then pulled his hand away with a sigh. So they didn’t look like twins anymore. Big deal.

He almost jumped when Ford’s body twitched and his eyes flew open.

“Sixer?”

“It worked.” His brother’s voice was no more than a whisper, but it certainly sounded like Ford.

Stan leaned forward, keeping his promise to look closely. There was no yellow glow in his brother’s eyes, just white and brown and blood-shot red. That’s what he’d expected, but he still breathed a sigh of relief as he leaned back again. “It did, didn’t it?” he said with a genuine smile.

Ford took a deep breath, showing a hint of a smile of his own. “He’s not there,” he said, still barely more than whispering. “He can’t reach me.”

“Well then!” Stan said, grinning. “You’ve got no idea how glad I am to hear you say that.” That was one thing less to worry about. Maybe it wasn’t a permanent solution, but as long as it made Ford able to sleep like a human being it was a victory. He scuffled himself over to Ford’s side and busied himself with unlocking the handcuffs behind Ford’s back, ignoring the slight tremble of his brother’s shoulders.

“Or maybe you do have an idea,” Stan rambled. “I mean, I expected it to work, but you scared me a bit. Still, a victory for the Pines family.” He took the cuffs away and put them back in his pocket. “There ya go!”

Ford flexed his hands in front of him a couple of times, then put them down in his lap, looking at Stan again. “It worked, Stanley!” he repeated, louder this time.

Stan grimaced slightly. “Yep,” he said. “Now, are you—” He was going to suggest a belated lunch – he was definitely hungry himself, and Ford _had_ to be – but Ford interrupted him.

“Do you realize what this means?” Ford used Stan’s shoulder for support to get to his feet, only to fall backwards to sit on the couch. Stan followed suit, wincing at the cracking sound of his joints, taking the seat next to his brother. “He can’t touch me!” Ford continued, grabbing both of Stan’s shoulders and shaking him slightly. “He can’t get to me! Not while I’m in here! I’m—” His voice broke and turned into a quiet, uncontrolled laughter.

Stan resisted the urge to ask if Ford was okay. He was probably more okay than he’d been in while, but that didn’t have to mean he was doing well. “Yeah,” he tried, more casual than he felt. “That was the whole point, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, I know!” Ford’s hands released Stan and rose into a stunned gesture. “And it _works_! He’s not there!” His shoulders shook violently, and suddenly Stan realized Ford might not be laughing at all. His head fell forward, forehead touching Stan’s shoulder, and yeah, he was definitely sobbing.

“Stanford?” Stan raised his hand, waving it helplessly, unsure what to do. He couldn’t just tell Ford to stop, could he? “Are you—?" He couldn’t even finish the question.

Ford didn’t seem to hear him. He was crumbling in on himself against Stan’s side, with quiet, hiccupping sobs in between something that was probably still a dry, oversaturated laughter. Stan hadn’t seen his brother cry since they were children, and never like this – like he was spilling over every side, too overcome with emotion to even try to stop it. It had to be relief, but for him to react like this – Ford really hadn’t believed he could be saved, had he?

Stan stopped fighting his instinct and put his arm around Ford’s back, pulling him up against his chest. He didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing. Ford would be okay. This was still better than the stiff terror in his brother’s eyes earlier. And whether it was possible or not, Stan would punch that demon back into oblivion for doing this to him.

Ford didn’t resist the impromptu hug. In fact, he seemed to be hanging onto Stan, leaning against him while the sobs that wrecked him slowly started to peter out. Eventually the tension in his back and shoulders evaporated as well, leaving him limp as a ragdoll against Stan’s chest. Neither of them said a word.

Perhaps he should leave. Ford would probably want to be alone with himself after that emotional breakdown. He was safe and he didn’t need Stan to watch him. But he was heavy and warm and relaxed, and Stan couldn’t bring himself to disturb him. Ford’s eyelids were half-closed, and his deep breaths betrayed only a fading hint of a tremble by now. It was comfortable, companionable, and Stan simply didn’t _want_ to move.

“I’m fine,” Ford mumbled eventually. “I’m actually... fine.” Seconds later he was breathing too slowly to be anything but peacefully asleep. Sleeping without fear – for what must have been the first time in over five weeks, plus/minus thirty years. Maybe Stan had done something right, after all.

Stan smiled with a mix of relief and wonder, then found himself yawning again. He didn’t hold it back this time. Leaning his cheek against Ford’s hair, he let his own eyelids droop. If he wasn’t going to move, he might as well catch some shut-eye himself.

 

* * *

When Mabel peeked into the room half an hour later to see if grunkle Stan and his brother were finally done with the barrier yet or if they wanted her to bring some food over, she found the two men leaning against each other on the couch, fast asleep and snoring softly. It was so adorable that she had to put a hand over her mouth the contain a squeal.

They both deserved a nap. Mabel took the opportunity to snap a picture for the scrapbook, then left them alone.

 


	10. Safety

Stanford blinked, slowly, his eyelashes uncomfortably crusted for some reason. He’d been on the beach, and there’d been some kind of trouble, but right now he was resting against something warm and safe, so it seemed best to just close his eyes again.

_No._

No, what was he thinking, what was he _doing_? He pushed himself up and scrambled to his feet on a surge of panic. How could he possibly think it was fine? He’d been asleep again, his body was betraying him just like everything else did, _it was already too late_. He hit his back hard against the covered mirror on the opposite side of the room, clenching his large hands in the fabric and stared wild-eyed around him, trying to understand what had happened.

The blurry, grey-haired person he’d been resting against in the couch grumbled his name. “Stanford?”

Stanley. Of course.

He remembered. The barrier spell. Bill was blocked out.

_He was safe._

_He was safe._

_He was safe._

Ford made himself draw a deep breath, slowly letting go of the cloth behind him and allowing his shoulders to relax, repeating the words like a mantra in his mind. _He was safe._ For now. Bill couldn’t touch him.

“Stanford?” Stanley repeated, sounding more worried this time. “You okay?”

“Yes,” Ford said hoarsely, trying to will his heart to slow down, his head to stop throbbing. “I believe so.” Bill wasn’t here. Bill hadn’t been in his mind or body since before he’d entered this room. He hadn’t endangered anything by sleeping. Stanley was fine, the children were fine, the _world_ was fine. He hadn’t lost control.

Running a hand through his hair, he tried to parse the repercussions or lack thereof of this course of events. He’d slept undisturbed. His mind must have been throwing randomized memories and emotions at him, but natural dreams were harmless, and Bill hadn’t been there. His body had actually had a chance to _rest_.

“Bad dreams?” Stanley asked.

“No—no, hardly that bad,” Ford said, making an attempt to bring the fleeting images of the dream back to mind. He’d been on Glass Shard Beach. Stanley had been there, with gray hair and a dirty red jacket, standing on the deck of the Stan o’War and threatening to burn the unicorn hair, but Ford had been preoccupied with a futile effort to erase the myriad triangles someone had carved into the sand. Discomforting, certainly, but not delibitating. “Bill stayed out of my head, and I think I slept well. I was just startled upon waking.”

Stanley grunted. “Fair enough.”

Ford leaned back against the mirror and closed his eyes – and it was alright to do so, he was _safe_ – and tried to take stock of himself. His throat was parched, and there was a distracting headache pounding the insides of his skull to the beat of his still racing heart. He probably shouldn’t have moved so quickly. The skin on his chest was throbbing even worse, heating up as if Bill had burned him rather than cut him last night, sticky and clammy under his clothes, but he refused to think further about that mess. He felt thoroughly sore. Bruised. But none of it was new, and despite everything, he felt – _better_. More real. The exhaustion hadn’t gone away, but it felt more like simple weariness than having his consciousness balanced on razor-sharp blades at the moment.

With a final sigh, he relaxed and didn’t even stumble on the way back to the couch. He picked up his glasses and the opened Pitt cola he hadn’t finished earlier on the way, draining the stale soda in a single gulp as he sat down. “What time is it?” he asked, leaning forward with his arms on his knees.

“A couple of minutes past five in the afternoon.” Stanley yawned while checking his watch. “I can’t believe _I_ slept that long. Probably good for you, though. You feel any better now?”

“Yes, I—” Ford hesitated. “I still can’t believe it. I never meant to—well.” He rubbed his eyes hard with the heels of his hands, then put his glasses back on. “I needed this.” He’d prefer not to talk about his earlier breakdown, not to mention falling asleep on top of his brother like a small child, but despite the embarrassment he couldn’t bring himself to regret it. Safety was such an amazing luxury, and Stanley was—

Helping him. Part of him was still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Thanks,” he mumbled finally, deliberately not looking at his aged twin. He wanted to berate himself for showing that kind of vulnerability, but in the end, no harm seemed to have been done. Stanley made a decent pillow, that was all.

“Heh,” Stanley said beside him, stretching his arms. “Told ya we could fix it. We’ll have you back up and nerding out in no time.”

The familiar fatigue in Ford’s limbs reminded him that he could probably sleep more – and the realization that he _could_ sleep more, risking no immediate horrors, made him chuckle briefly with a mixture of amusement and wonder. Perhaps he had more time left than he’d dared hope. There was still an apocalypse with his name on it waiting in the wings, but he would be content to take Stanley’s earlier advice and delay the expedition to the UFO crash site until tomorrow. Amazingly, a delay didn’t have to mean deterioration of his chances.

Stanley was standing up and stretching further, loudly cracking his back. “So,” he said, “You gonna admit you’re hungry already, or am I gonna have to drag you to the kitchen?”

Ford considered it and found that he was, indeed, hungry. “I suppose I could eat,” he said. Although he was sorely tempted to go back to sleep immediately, some nourishment might give him a bit of much needed strength back.

“Good, because now _I’m_ starving, and you’re running out of excuses not to eat. Let’s raid the kitchen for leftovers, shall we?”

Ford flinched. Those words – that inflection – were too familiar, assaulting him with a wave of unwelcome déjà vu. A simpler time, a beloved brother, and damn it all, but he’d missed him.

“Stop it!” he blurted.

“Stop what?”

_Stop sounding so much like yourself. Stop making me think we’re still—_

“Never mind,” Ford deflected quietly. He had more important things to worry about. Stanley had ruined everything for him at least once – twice, if he counted the yesterday of thirty years ago, although perhaps he’d had very little left to be ruined at that point. And he had ruined everything for Stanley in turn. They were both better off without a twin. This aching emptiness inside him was ridiculous. “Let’s go,” he said.

Passing though the metaphysical barrier should not have been a physical sensation, but crossing the threshold still made a chill go down Stanford’s spine. Beyond it he was vulnerable again. For a moment he froze, a cowardly part of him ready to turn back to the miraculous sanctuary, but no. He couldn’t lock himself in a room. Bill was still out there, and even if he could hide himself from the demon forever, Bill would find other ways to bring about the end of the world unless Ford could put a stop to it. He hoped that the manic laughter in the back of his mind was just his imagination.

The soundless laughter blended with the headache, but didn’t cease even as Stanley found a large plate of no less than six pre-assembled cold tacos in the fridge, grinning at Ford as he set them on the table and started digging into them with good appetite.

Stanford would have done the same if he could. The tacos smelled simultaneously delicious and nauseating, flavorful and filling, spicy and greasy. He picked one up and found himself staring at it as if it was an opponent set to tear down his carefully constructed thesis. The thesis being: he was hungry. Carefully nibbling a small bite, chewing and swallowing, he found his stomach churning painfully, an annoying wave of nausea passing through him.

Trying to find something else might an option – he’d eaten a whole pancake this morning before his stomach started protesting – but he’d never been a picky eater and this seemed like a frustrating time to start. Just because he hadn’t been eating in a while didn’t have to mean he was psysically incapable. Sighing, he got up to the sink, fetched a glass from the cupboard – Stanley’s glass, Stanley’s cupboard, Stanley’s _house_ , Stanley’s _food_ – and filled it with water. He drank deeply, then refilled. At least _that_ felt good going down.

He’d just sat down by the table again when the children came bouncing down the stairs. Well, Mabel bounced – Dipper came after, stiffly and carefully, hindered by the injuries Ford’s carelessness had inflicted on him. Ford looked away, wishing they wouldn’t see him.

“Grunkle Stan!” Mabel exclaimed, throwing herself around Stanley’s neck. “We thought you were gonna sleep forever!”

“Ah,” Stanley said, gently pulling her off him. “Yeah, sorry about that, pumpkin. But on the bright side, the barrier worked fine, so no one’s gonna get sleep possessed again.” He glanced at Ford who did not look up. “You’re a hero, sweetie,” he told Mabel.

She shrugged. “Maybe, but I think heroism is relative,” she said. “Just like being pure of heart.”

“Fair,” Stanley admitted, raising a finger. “Protecting the family from demons sounds pretty heroic to me, though. What do you say, Poindexter?”

Ford gave up on his staring contest with the taco, being obliged to look at the weird, charming child who had done the impossible for his sake. “Yes,” he said. It would have been mostly to protect her actual family, not him, but she had handled herself above and beyond what anyone could have expected, and giving him this gift after what he had done to her brother – she shouldn’t have had to. “You did well, Mabel,” he managed.

She beamed at him. “You’re welcome, uncle Ford!”

“So, um,” Dipper’s voice appeared from Ford’s other side, “Did you have a good nap?”

Ford turned reluctantly to the boy. He looked more than a little bit nervous, and for good reason. “Much better than I deserved,” he replied solemnly. “Don’t worry, I won’t allow him to hurt you again.”

“Good, that’s good… Um...” Dipper bit his lip, apparently trying to say something else, but unable to get it out. Ford took the paus as an opportunity to focus on the meal, forcing himself to take a big bite out of the taco. If he was going to eat it he might as well go ahead and do it.

That was a mistake. The greasy taco meat seemed to grow disproportionally in his mouth, making it a struggle to swallow, and once he succeeded in getting it down, it tried to get back up. He hulked, putting a hand over his mouth and fighting not to vomit all over the kitchen table as his own stomach turned against him. For a panicked moment he was convinced it was Bill’s doing, this was some new trick to throw him out of his own body. His insides were burning with acid and spasming with gag reflexes, and the rest of the world disappeared in a blur next to his desperate efforts to stay in control.

Somehow he was able to push it down. The next thing he knew he was panting painfully, eyes filled with hot tears and a figurative knife twisting in his stomach, but he was still himself, and the bite he’d taken had stayed inside him. Someone was holding up his water glass for him. He took it and drank gratefully.

Logically, it wasn’t Bill. It was just nausea. Just nausea. His own body was betraying him, but that was nothing new either, and he was stronger than that. He shoved the fear back before it threatened to drown him again. No need to panic.

Stanley’s hand was on his shoulder, the weight uncomfortable but grounding. Without looking at anyone, Ford wiped his face with a hand, then placed his elbows on the table and leaned his forehead into his palms, closing his eyes and breathing deeply. He resisted the urge to press a hand to his aching stomach, too reluctant to touch the infuriating marks that covered it. His shoulders wouldn’t stop trembling.

“Are you alright, Sixer?” Stanley’s gravelly voice was almost soft.

“Yes,” he replied reflexively. “I’m fine. I’m not in any immediate danger of being possessed or passing out.”

“That’s not really what I was asking for,” Stanley said, his voice still inappropriately worried. “You’ve barely eaten at all, and that kinda sounded like you were gonna throw up.”

“I’m fine,” Ford repeated. His stomach churned unhappily at him, but he wasn’t dying, and he’d survive a while longer on what he’d managed to swallow, surely. He forced himself to look up for a moment to meet Stanley’s eyes.

Stanley’s slitted, yellow-tinted eyes.

Ford stiffened, heart pounding, but it was gone when he blinked. It couldn’t have been there at all. Could it?

“No, you’re _not_ fine.” Stanley grimaced and glanced at the plate of tacos, pinching the bridge of his nose with his free hand. “You need something easier on the stomach, don’t you? I didn’t even think of that; how did I not think of that?”

Ford managed to draw enough air to speak. “It’s fine!”

“No, it’s not!” Stanley let go of Ford and raised his hands in exasperation. “Stop hurting yourself, Sixer!”

Bill had said the exact same words, mocking him, telling him to give up. Stanley didn’t mean it that way, surely not, but something snapped. Ford slammed his fists on the table and pushed himself up, staring at Stanley, ignoring the way his head throbbed at the movement. “Why do you _care_?” he said, louder than he’d intended. “Why do any of you care?” It struck him anew how none of this made any sense. He couldn’t afford to question it, but could he afford _not_ to? Stanley’s insistence on fixing Ford before fixing the rift. The children’s eagerness to help, not just for the sake of world, but for _him_.

Stanley’s pose deflated. “Stanford…”

“I’m hurting myself? Bill is in my _mind_ , Stanley! I’ve been doing whatever it takes to fight him! And now you’re—” He stopped, eyes widening with a horrifying possibility. “—you’re undoing it.”

Stanley winced, as if knowing his own guilt.

“You want me to lower my guard, don’t you?” Ford continued, voice hard. “You want me to stop fighting.” Something inside him warned that this didn’t make sense either, it didn’t add up, but nevertheless the possibility was there. Stanley had mocked his work for thirty years. He could be mocking him now, making him believe safety was even possible before ripping it all away again. He slowly took a step backwards, then another.

“Ford, _don’t_.” Stanley sounded almost pained. “There’s a difference between stopping you from fighting and _helping you fight_.”

“Is there?” Not if this was all a trick. It wasn’t, he knew it wasn’t, but what if it was? He needed to escape, but there was nowhere to go and all the stakes were right here. All too familiar helplessness started to flood him, and he fought to keep it down like he’d fought the nausea. “Stanley – you _pushed_ me through the portal.” He could have been planning this all along, taking Ford’s life and turning it to a mockery. _Bill_ could have planned this. _Family can betray you_. Bill knew.

“Stanford, _no_ ,” Stanley breathed. “You know I never meant to do that. I’ve regretted that one moment for the last thirty years. You can’t believe I’d do that on purpose.”

“I didn’t believe you’d wreck my science project either!”

“I’m _sorry_!” Stanley almost screamed, then took a deep breath, slowly unclenching his fists. “Listen to yourself, Poindexter. Why the hot belgian waffle would I want you to sleep and eat and recover if I was gonna screw you over? That demon’s messing with you, but you’re smarter than this.”

Was he, though? At some point he’d backed into the stove and now he was half leaning against it with his hands clenched behind his back, acutely aware of the children looking on with wide eyes. Human eyes, as far as he could tell. Stanley was right, Bill was messing with him. Bill would want him to relax and lower his guard, but he wouldn’t want him to _recover_.

Was that even possible to recover? Was that also a mockery?

“Breathe, Ford!”

He was trying, but his lungs refused to do more than hyperventilate.

“Look, just – he hurt you. I get it. And you had to fight back by hurting yourself, _I get it_. But you don’t have to do that anymore! Okay? Look at me! You’re not alone anymore.”

Ford finally managed to draw a deeper, shaky breath. “I know,” he panted, and it was only partly a lie. “But why? Why do you—why do you care what happens to me? What does it matter?” That was the sticking point. He wanted to trust Stanley. That’s why he’d sent for him in the first place. But if Bill had taught him anything, it was that things that seemed too good to be true tended not to be.

“You’re—” Stanley bristled, but Ford interrupted him.

“I made my own mistakes! They’re not your responsibility! All I asked you to do was to hide a journal!”

“Yeah,” Stanley said, “And if I’d left and done that you would’ve been dead within days back then! You wouldn’t even tell me what was going on!”

“I would have been dead, but I might have prevented the end of the world and no one else would have had to suffer for my mistakes! Including you!”

Stanley narrowed his eyes. “You’re not even gonna argue about the ‘dead’ part?”

Ford ignored that; it wouldn’t have been worth lamenting, not if he could have ensured the portal and the journals were never used again first. “And then, once I was gone, you had no reason whatsoever to bring me back, and every reason not to. Even now, you keep insisting on helping _me_ over and above dealing with the crack in reality that _you_ caused. _Why_?”

“I told ya. You’re my brother.”

“That’s not—”

“But you wouldn’t do the same for me.” Stanley looked down and crossed his arms defensively. “That’s fine. I make my own choices.”

Ford glanced at Dipper, remembering what the boy had said this morning. _You’re family, that makes it worth it._ “I didn’t say I wouldn’t,” he mumbled, finally feeling his shoulders sag and his fists unclench on the stove behind him. He kept his eyes open and focused on remembering how to breathe.

“Whatever.” Stanley shrugged slightly. “Just. _Please_. I didn’t spend thirty years on that machine just to have you kill yourself as soon as I got you back.”

Ford didn’t have a response to that. It had never been his intent to commit suicide, but he’d accepted that Bill would kill him eventually. That hadn’t changed.

“I’m gonna check if I’ve got some canned soup or something for you.” Stanley turned away and started rummaging through the cupboard that served as pantry. “Give me a few minutes and don’t disappear into thin air, willya.”

Ford didn’t argue, or move. Disappearing into thin air was neither possible – at least not without the portal, and he wasn’t keen on repeating that experience – or likely to help matters in any way. He did wince hard and hiss in pain when Mabel appeared next to him, wrapping her arms around his waist and pressing her head painfully against injuries he’d made sure she knew nothing about.

“Did you sleep alright, at least?” she asked.

“Yes,” he muttered, carefully unwrapping himself from the embrace. “Thanks to you, I did get some rest.”

She smiled, perhaps slightly too wide, too strained – and Ford tensed, but her eyes were normal and he needed to trust that that meant something. “Good!” She looked at him intently. “We’ll fix the other stuff too, don’t worry!”

“Mabel.” Ford hesitated. She meant it, didn’t she? She meant every word, with even less justification than Stanley had. He drew a deep breath and tried to be rational. “I told you before to stay away from me.”

“And I told you before – nope!” She reached up and poked his nose.

Ford jerked back and didn’t reply. The best he could do was to gently push her aside and leave the kitchen, as if he could leave his own conflicted thoughts and fears behind. He needed to do something useful. The journals. The rift. The bed. He half expected Stanley to try to stop him, but his brother was in the middle of saying something to Dipper and only glanced at him. Mabel, however, followed along – whether on Stanley’s unspoken orders or her own accord was unclear.

He’d only meant to pick up the third journal from the TV chair, but instead he found himself reclining in the chair with the book in his lap, leaning his head back against the cushion and rubbing his temples. It was safe, he reminded himself. He’d had some real rest and wasn’t half unconscious anymore. He wouldn’t hurt anyone by sitting down for a moment, and no one would hurt him, either.

“You know,” Mabel said, bouncing on her toes next to the armrest. “I know you wrote that in the journal, but I need to tell you that trusting no one is stupid. Then you’d be all alone all the time, and that makes people wonky in the head!”

Ford huffed. Yes. He was ‘wonky in the head’. Anyone would be in his position, if you disregarded the fact that no one else would be in his position in the first place. “I know,” he said with a sigh, half hoping that Mabel would go away, half wishing she’d stay and distract him. He took a moment to flip through the journal, confirming that it was still intact, before turning back to the girl. “Do you still have the journal I lent you?” he asked.

“Of course I do!” Mabel said, immediately rushing off to the hallway by the door. “It’s right here in my backpack!” The bag in question lay discarded on the floor under the coat rack, and after a moment of rummaging through it Mabel produced Ford’s first journal. “Do you need it back?”

“Yes.” Stanford got up and took it from her with a curt nod. It seemed no worse for the wear either, through he’d noticed earlier that Journal 1 showed a lot more wear and tear than the other two, presumably because it had been studied by Stanley for decades. His guts clenched for reasons quite unrelated to food at that mental image, but he shrugged it off, stacking Journal 1 with Journal 3 on the crook of his arm.

It wasn’t that he needed the journals himself, exactly, but with everything else going on, he’d momentarily lost track of both of these, and it was a relief to have them accounted for. They were still too dangerous to lose, too dangerous to risk them falling into the wrong hands. The previous hiding places were unsafe, so he’d have to figure something else out soon, but for tonight he’d just put them away in the warded room.

Re-entering the barrier should not have felt as overwhelming as it did. He had to fight down a feverish urge to curl up on the couch and never move again, but he couldn’t allow that, not while his handiwork was still a threat. Mabel was still tailing him, admiring the glowing line along the walls that made up the physical components of the barrier spell while Ford hid the two journals out of sight in the liquor cabinet. He half-consciously noted that all the bottles and flasks were empty, even the ones he hadn’t yet finished yesterday, thirty years ago. Stanley must have drained them, before he boarded the room up.

“Did you know that you and Stan looked really adorable when you were napping before?” Mabel said suddenly.

“Adorable?” Ford repeated, rising to his feet and taking a deep breath, trying to settle the pain in his head and body. He didn’t believe Mabel was using the word condescendingly, but it still sat wrong with him.

“Yes! Like a couple of kittens!”

He stared at her. This should probably be amusing. “I’m a grown man,” he said. “And Stanley is... well, he’s twice my age. Hardly a kitten.”

“Nope, you totally looked like kittens! So cute!” She grinned innocently.

Ford clenched his teeth around a curse. Bill had called him cute, too. ‘Cute’ was struggling against the hold he had allowed Bill to have on him. ‘Cute’ was trying to prevent an apocalypse he himself had instigated. Perhaps ‘cute’ was falling asleep next to his brother and believing that was fine. “I’d rather not be called that,” he said tersely.

Mabel blinked. “But uncle Ford! Kittens are awesome!”

“There’s nothing wrong with kittens,” Ford conceded, shuddering as he left the barrier again and headed back to the living room. He’d find the final journal and the rift itself down in the basement.  “It’s a more appropriate appellation for children, though.”

“In that case, you and grunkle Stan must have been _extra_ adorable when you were kids!”

He sighed softly. “Perhaps.” He’d walked right into that one.

“Hey, Ford.” Stanley appeared in the kitchen doorway, eyes flicking from Ford to Mabel and back.

“Don’t worry, grunkle Stan!” Mabel said and slipped her hand into Ford’s as if for emphasis. ”I’ve got this!”

Ford withdrew his hand immediately. So she was here to keep an eye on him, then. As if that would end well for anyone.

“Come here,” Stanley said, reaching around to give Ford a gentle push on the back. “There’s some hot soup for ya now, and then you can go back to sleep or something.”

“Oh. Yes. Soup.” Ford blinked. It was, admittedly, a good idea. He could argue that it wasn’t strictly necessary – he’d be functional for a while longer, especially if he did get all the sleep his body was yearning for. But his body was yearning for nourishment, too, and with safe sleep within his grasp, there was nothing stopping him from eating but his own frailty, and soup would work. It would make him stronger.

The whole situation struck him as absurd in so many ways. The world was liable to end, and Stanley of all people was fussing about making him _eat_ , while a grand niece too old to have been his daughter compared him to a baby cat. He huffed a sound that might have been a helpless laughter. The only part of his current existence that he could still understand was the threat to all reality. But yes, he’d take that soup.

 


	11. Possibilities

Stan had kinda hoped that Ford would be less twitchy after that breakdown, but no such luck. His young twin still seemed to think he was carrying the world on his shoulders and any kind of help was either a miracle or a trick. Like Stan wouldn’t – or _shouldn’t_ – care about him after what’d happened so many years ago.

It wasn’t like he couldn’t relate, and that might be the worst part. This was _Ford_ , but he was acting like life had kicked his ass to hell and back. In fact, Stan was starting to think that the reason his brother had asked him to go away with the journal thirty years ago had been because he simply hadn’t dared hope for anything more. Like real help with the real problem hadn’t even been on the chart. That was not a familiar feeling at all, hell no. And Stan himself had been tired and broke and expecting something completely different from his brother at the time. In the end he hadn’t done a thing right – not until last night.

So yeah. Ford might have been ready to die, and Stan might have almost granted that wish thirty years ago – but he _wasn’t dead_. He was back now, and he wasn’t going to die any time soon, not if Stan had any say in the matter. Which he did. Ford himself must have started to get that, what with that strong reaction to the barrier, but maybe it’d take more time to get the message through.

At least he did eat the split pea soup Stan heated up, and he didn’t try to be sick again. In fact, his face gradually relaxed into something resembling contentment. Stan watched him and found the tension in his own shoulders ease up a little, too. He’d saved Ford from the goddamn portal against all odds. He could save him from this, too. So Ford was at rock bottom? The only way forward was up.

 

Ford insisted on going down to the basement for the rift after the meal, but the nod he gave when Stan told him he wasn’t going alone might actually have been grateful. At the very least, he didn’t seem to mind.

“You sure that rift isn’t safer down here, though?” Stan had to wonder on the way down. “Secret door, coded locks, elevator – it’s not like anyone would be able to just snatch it.”

“Bill could,” Ford said. He was standing straight-backed in the elevator, hands behind his back, looking more like a soldier than a scientist. Not a good look on him, but better than ‘paranoid hollow-eyed madman’, which was still lurking right below the surface. “Possessing me or anyone else, locks wouldn’t stop him. However, the barrier will.”

“I guess that makes sense. But at least down here, no poor sod is gonna stumble on it and break it by accident.”

Ford turned his head and looked at him warily. “Do you think that’s likely?”

“Eh. Probably not.” Stan grimaced and rubbed the back of his head. “But it’s still in a glass jar, and believe me when I say I know how easily those things fall from a shelf and shatter. I sell snow globes.”

Ford shuddered. “I won’t put it on a shelf, then.”

The elevator let them out on the bottom floor, and for once Stan walked out into the control room without the oppressive weight of decades worth of despair and perseverance hanging over him. He was _done_ here, and it almost surprised him how hard it still was to believe. Ford was here, alive, right next to him.

Even in the dim basement light Stan could see Ford’s jaws clench tighter as he looked around upon his own decades-old machinery. It occurred to him that they could take a sledgehammer to it – wasn’t like anyone needed it anymore. He wasn’t sure what Ford would think of the idea – might be too soon for that – but it’d sure feel good, bashing the whole system to smithereens. Besides, it _was_ a danger to reality itself, so there was that.

The work desk still had that memory erasing gun as well as one of the journals – number two – left lying openly on top. Ford picked the book up and hid it in his coat pocket before he bent down to take the rift out from the drawer underneath, but something stopped him mid-movement. For a second he didn’t move at all, then he slowly straightened his back, staring at the memory gun.

Stan tensed reflexively, ready to defend himself if he had to. Last night Ford had gotten it into his messed-up mind to shoot him with that thing, after all.

“Stanley,” Ford said quietly, still facing the gun and not Stan. “I just realized that Bill can be defeated.” There was a weird tremble in his voice, hard to tell if it was fear or joy.

Stan’s eyes widened as the words sank in. “Really?”

“Yes, really!” Ford put his hands on the gun, still not turning around. “It’s too important for insincerity. I know—I _know_ how to defeat him!”

“Hah!” Stan said, not sure what else to say, but feeling a grin creep up his cheeks. “I knew you’d figure something out once that big brain of yours was back to working order.” A total mess or no, Ford was nothing if not clever. “What’s the plan, then?”

“I’ll need your help.”

“Told ya a million times, Sixer. You have it.” Stan hoped that it would finally go through his brother’s thick skull. “So is it that memory eraser thing? Bill’s vulnerable to that?”

“Yes!” Ford said, whirling around to face Stan, both hands clenched tightly around the barrel of the gun. “He is! If I’m right in my assumptions on how he enters a human mind, he would have to be.” His eyes were practically burning with fierce determination.

Stan felt the cogs in his mind spin as he started to realize what Ford meant. “So you could erase him from inside someone’s mind and he would be gone for good? Dead? An ex-demon?”

“Exactly!”

“That’s amazing!” Stan actually laughed this time. A weapon Ford hadn’t had access to thirty years ago that Dipper just happened to have stolen from the Blind Eye guys just happened to be able to solve Ford’s demon problem. Just as Dipper had just happened to have found one of the lost journals and lead him to the other, giving him the final piece necessary to open the portal. He should tell the kid how incredible he was at some point, even if it _would_ bloat his head.

“I know,” Ford said, smiling slightly even as his knuckles whitened around the gun. “It’s too simple.” He paused. “We won’t have the element of surprise for long, though. He could come and look through my mind at any moment. We have to hurry, but I have all I need to summon him quickly right above on the second basement level.” He waved Stan aside and started walking back to the elevator.

Stan touched his arm to stop him. “Wait.”

“What?” The word was curt, and Ford’s arm tense like a steel wire. The look on his face was just as scared and determined as when he’d insisted on summoning Bill to test the barrier earlier, but he didn’t _need_ to feel like that.

“You don’t have to bring him back to _your_ mind, Poindexter. I could probably—"

“He is my mistake, Stanley,” Ford interrupted tersely. “I’ll do this.” He looked at Stan like the matter was too obvious to discuss.

Stan huffed, but backed down. “Fine.” Of course Ford would be stubborn about doing it himself, never mind if it would be more painful for him. But in the end it didn’t really matter – not if it worked the way Ford said it would. If the demon could be killed once and for all, there’d be nothing stopping Ford from recovering anymore. He could get his life back. A small shiver reminded Stan that he had no idea what that would be like in the long run, but he pushed the thought away, just like he’d had for years. Right now, Ford still needed him.

“So what is it that we need to do, exactly?” he asked as Ford paused in front of the elevator. He got the gist, but he’d rather have it spelled out.

Ford took a deep breath, then turned around again and handed the gun to Stan. Hands empty, he ran one of them through his hair before speaking. “Can I trust you to pull the trigger?” he asked grimly.

“Of course,” Stan said immediately, though it sounded a little morbid when his brother put it like that. Ford relaxed slightly at this, though – and yeah, pulling the trigger was the cincher. Even if Ford had had one of these weirdo mind guns thirty years ago he wouldn’t have been able to fire it at his own possessed self. Stan was going to pick up that slack, that’s what he was here _for_. He turned the gun around in his hands. “All I gotta do is to put in what’s gonna be erased on that screen and then fire, right?”

“Correct.” Ford nodded. “You’ll need to do it fast, as soon as you can verify by my eyes that he’s in my mind. If he catches on and leaves it will all be for nothing.”

“Right.” If he shot Ford and the demon wasn’t there – well, that’d probably erase Ford’s memories of Bill. Which might be a relief for him at first, but Stan could only imagine what kind of mess that would cause when the demon came back. “And his name is ‘Bill Cipher’?”

Ford blinked.

“It’s probably better if you put it in. Don’t wanna risk misspelling it.”

“Stanley, no, you’re—you misunderstand.” Ford shook his head, looking warily at Stan. “This weapon erases _memories_. Parts of a person’s mind. Bill is a foreign entity, not a part of my mind at all.”

“Yeah, so he’s a different person that can be erased without touching your own memories, right?” Stan said, suddenly suspecting that wasn’t right at all.

Ford flexed his hands in apparent frustration. “No, no. He’s not a ‘person’ at all. If you target ‘Bill Cipher’, all that will go is my memories of him, and then I’d be defenseless! He himself will move over to some other part of my mind and be perfectly safe from the purge.”

Stan’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t like the sound of that. “Then what would we have to put in to get rid of him?”

Ford looked Stan straight in the eyes. “Everything.”

Stan dropped the gun with a clatter. He couldn’t possibly have heard that right. “Everything?” he repeated, too calmly for the way his guts were twisting themselves into knots inside him. He should have known better than to think that Ford’s plan would be any kind of acceptable – he was a _mess_ – but that one word still stung like a slap to the face.

“Yes!” Ford clenched his fists at his sides. “Everything! If my whole mind burns while Bill is inside, he’ll be trapped. He’ll burn with it! He’ll be dead!”

“You’re—” Stan swallowed, taking a step back without thinking. “You’re asking me to kill you. After all this—all this time. I brought you back, Stanford, and you’re asking me to _kill_ you.”

“I—” Ford stopped, and Stan thought he could see his young brother’s shoulders tremble. “Not in the technical sense.”

“I don’t care about the technical sense! You’d be _gone_!”

“Yes, and that’s for the better!” Ford’s face twisted in anger. “Whatever is left of me will most likely be a better brother to you anyway! That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

Stan flinched. All he’d wanted for thirty years was Stanford back alive. He’d accomplished that, and the obvious next goal was to have him free from demonic shit. A better brother? Yeah, sure, he’d dreamed of recovering the twin relationship they used to have, but even at his most bitter, he’d never have wanted to _rewrite_ his brother. “Not like that, Poindexter!” he yelled.

“Then what _do_ you want with me? My life isn’t going to erase your mistakes, Stanley!” He broke off and pointed a finger at Stan’s chest, coming closer and lowering his voice. “My death could erase _mine_.”

That hit a bit close to home. “There has to be some—”

“Is validating your misspent thirty years worth sacrificing the _world_ , Stanley?”

“There has to be some other way!”

Ford took a step backwards, hitting the wall, his face tensing into something that reeked of fear again. “You told me to trust you. You kept repeating that you’d help me. You never meant that, did you? I should have known. No one means it.”

“I meant it, Stanford! I—”

“So will you keep your word and pull the trigger?”

That was manipulation, but Ford’s face was desperate, cornered in more than the literal way. “I would,” Stan said, “If it didn’t mean taking you down with him!”

Ford smashed a fist into the wall with a thud. “We can _kill_ him, Stanley!” he said. “End the threat once and for all! But you don’t want that. You want to keep me like a trophy until Bill figures out some way to get to the rift, and you’ll feel good about causing the apocalypse because at least you didn’t hurt your brother the one time it would have done some good to do so!”

Stan’s blood ran cold. His mouth felt dry. That wasn’t fair, but when was anything ever fair? Ford was giving him a choice between killing him and betraying him, but Stan wasn’t sure he could have done what Ford asked even if he’d wanted to.

“How about this,” he said eventually, his stunned mind finally reaching the third choice – the simple solution. “I’ll summon him. You fire the gun, erase my mind, kill him. There, it’s done.” He crossed his arms, the corners of his mouth twisting into a half smile. There was a certain kind of peace to this decision. A bit of closure, only slightly marred by worry for the kids – but Soos would be able to send them on their way back to their parents. He’d finished the task that kept him going for all those years, and with the demon gone, Ford would really be saved. Mission accomplished.

Ford flinched hard. “I told you,” he said. “These are my mistakes. They’re not yours to suffer for.”

Stan shrugged. “I’ve made plenty of mistakes. Besides, this isn’t about atonement, it’s about saving the world, right? So. I’m not gonna kill you, but we can still get rid of the demon.”

Ford stared at him silently for several seconds, like there was something about this he couldn’t believe. Eventually he closed his eyes, took several deep breaths and swallowed visibly. When he finally spoke, his voice was cracking.

“No,” he said. “No, I can’t let you do that.”

Whatever Stan felt wasn’t relief, but something did make the corners of his eyes sting. Blinking, he started to realize that he’d taken for granted that Ford _would_ be able to do it. “Well then,” he said, at a loss for anything else to say.

“Besides,” Ford mumbled, “We don’t have time to stand around arguing about it. You have to realize that—”

“No, _you_ have to realize something!” Stan interrupted, finding his words again and sensing an opening. “We _do_ have time! That’s why we got that barrier – so you can be safe from demons messing any more with your head while we think up a better plan. _There has to be another way!_ ”

Ford frowned, fists clenching again, glancing from Stan to the memory gun on the floor. “Take it,” he said.

“I’m not going to—”

“Just take it. Carry it with you. If Bill possesses me again, despite all precautions—if he threatens the rift, or the children—I ask you to fire it _then_. Only then.”

Stan bent down to pick up the gun, looking it over in his hands. Finally, he took a deep breath. “Alright.” He’d do anything to make sure it wouldn’t come to that, but if it did— “That’s fair.”

Ford’s shoulders slumped with a soft sigh. “Let’s get the rift.”

 

They didn’t talk while going back upstairs, and Stan didn’t comment on Ford’s choice to put the jar with the rift underneath the couch. At least it was out of casual view or accidental touch. After putting the journal away in the liquor cabinet with the other two, Ford stared at the wall for a moment, obviously stifling a yawn.

“We should get your bedsheets over here,” Stan suggested, breaking the silence.

“I don’t—” Ford stopped, frowning slightly. “Yes, you’re right. The bedsheets I used last night. I’ll go get them.” He left the room immediately, leaving Stan to follow.

“We’ll get your clothes while we’re at it,” Stan continued, matching his young brother’s strides. “The ones I washed, at least. And put the ones you were wearing thirty years ago in the laundry. Get you settled in a bit, so you can go to bed when you feel like it. I bet there’s more stuff of yours in storage that you’d want to unpack, too. Sorry I can’t put a proper bed in your room right away, but the kids are using my only extras, and—”

Ford stopped and looked at him with a strangely blank expression. “Do you know where my magnet guns are?” he asked after a moment.

Stan blinked. Of course he wouldn’t be Ford if he didn’t ask for weird science shit before anything else. But then again, ‘magnet gun’ did ring a bell. “Would that be the gizmo that rips nails straight out of a wall from twenty yards away?”

“Yes, that’s it.”

He remembered that one. Left quite an impression, both in his mind and on the shack. “I think I know where I put those. Need ‘em right away?”

“No, but I’ll need them tomorrow. I’m going out to collect the substance that might seal the rift, and a magnet gun will be helpful in navigating that particular environment.”

Yeah, he’d mentioned something like that before, and hearing that it might be in a magnetic part of the forest was weird, but whatever. He’d hoped that Ford would be willing to rest for a few days before running off into the forest, but at least he wasn’t insisting on going right now, so Stan didn’t argue. Still, he wasn’t about to let Ford take the car and go off on his own just yet. “You’re not—”

He was interrupted. “Will you come with me?”

That was unexpected. Ford was looking at him intently, actually _asking_ him to come along. “Yeah,” Stan said, the obvious answer, then grinned. “’Course I will.”

“Good.” Ford turned around and made it to the bedroom a few seconds later, no more comments. Stan still couldn’t stop grinning.

While Ford stiffly rolled up the bedsheets in a bundle – he didn’t bother to straighten them first, much less fold them, not that Stan would have done that either – Stan picked up Ford’s dirty laundry and threw it in the corner with some of his own stuff that he was planning on washing. Pants, underwear, a ragged tie— “Hey, didn’t you have a shirt last night?”

Ford mumbled something behind the bundle of sheets and blanket in his arms.

“What was that?”

“Yes, I did have a shirt. I’ll find it later.” He pushed the blanket down a bit so he could see where he was going, but didn’t wait for Stan before he marched back towards the warded study.

Stan chortled, suspecting that the shirt was rolled up in the bundle somewhere, and Ford just didn’t want to put it down and go through it. It wasn’t like they were in _that_ much of a hurry with the bedding. Still, Ford could probably manage to get through the shack without backup while Stan finished what he was doing, so he bent down to pick up the last item of Ford’s dirty clothing, which was the trenchcoat. As he did, a few items fell out of it with a clatter.

 _Huh_. Stan scooped up an old color photograph and a few thin pieces of plastic and sat down on the bed to take a look.

A single glance at the picture was enough to realize what it was, but it still made his breath hitch for a moment. Two small boys with identical faces smiled up at him from the deck of an old wrecked boat. He had a few similar pictures in the shack, but this one was far less faded and ravaged by the passage of time. It was old, but not at all as old as it should be by right. It must have been in Ford’s pocket when he fell through the portal. Which meant it was in his pocket when he was greeting Stan with a crossbow and telling him to go far away thirty years ago. Something in his heart tightened at that thought, but he didn’t know what to do with it.

“Hot Belgian Waffles,” he mumbled, even though there were no children nearby to hear him swearing. “Who knew you were such a sap, Poindexter?” He put the picture down gently on the mattress.

The pieces of plastic were less nostalgic and more confusing. It seemed to be broken shards of – an old credit card? Yeah, kind of looked like the late seventies kind of Visa card. The name Stanford Pines was clearly visible when he put the sharp edges of a couple of pieces together – and if Ford had been carrying it in his coat when he disappeared, that explained what had happened to _that_. An old mystery solved, then. Except at some point it had been forcefully snapped into knife-edged pieces, and why the hell would Ford have done that? The credit on the card had still been good in 1982.

The pieces were definitely sharp enough to cut. He poked his thumb with a corner to test, drawing a small drop of blood. And they’d been in the coat. Within reach of Ford last night. He didn’t like the look of that at all.


	12. Plans

Stanford threw the bundled bedclothes in the approximate direction of the couch, then pulled the intricately carved door shut behind himself with a louder slam than he’d intended, turning the key in the lock before Stanley could come after him. He needed to be alone, and he needed it _now_. He needed to think about what he was doing, as well as what he was _not_ doing.

The pyramid prism was still sitting on the floor, and Ford kicked it as hard as he could, watching it hit the wall, sadly without shattering.

Mulling over the impossible would not help, but he just needed a moment without seeing Stanley’s impossibly aged face looking at him like he was some kind of—

 _Long lost brother._ If it was only that simple.

Ford squared his shoulders and clenched his hands behind his back, pacing restlessly across the room to the fake fireplace, turned on his heels, back to the door, turned again. Relaxing was out of the question, even though he knew very well that he _could_ rest inside the barrier. He’d already proven that. _He was safe._

Was he?

The bloodied sheets from last night suggested otherwise, and so did the vaguely hot ache across his skin that refused to fade away, despite factually being nothing but a collection of rather minor injuries. _Bill owned him_. That was a fact, too. It didn’t mean he was completely helpless. Bill might think of him as a toy, but he’d never given up the fight, and he certainly wasn’t about to do it now, when he suddenly had a stronger position than he’d had in weeks. And yet—

Ford took a deep breath and kept pacing.

He did have a course of action. Stanley’s assistance would make acquiring the alien adhesive from the UFO wreckage a relatively simple matter, and it was possible, though somewhat unlikely, that it would be able to seal the rift permanently. In any case applying it to the jar would most definitely make it more difficult for Bill to open it, which would buy more time.

The fact remained that he shouldn’t need more time. _Bill could have been gone already._

If only Stanley hadn’t been so stubborn. Bill could have been gone if only Stanley had agreed to wipe Ford’s mind, like a sensible person.

Bill could have been gone if only _Ford_ had agreed to wipe _Stanley’s_ mind.

That was not the same!

Ford’s foolishness had caused this mess. It only made sense that he’d be the one to clean it up. Ford’s mind would have been a fair price to pay to destroy Bill – a perfect solution without unnecessary loose ends. He’d deal with the demon one last time, and that would be _it_. The world would be safe and no one would have any reason to fear the results of his mistakes ever again. Stanley hadn’t even been involved in the original deal. He’d made enormous mistakes, yes – shoving Ford at the activated portal had been one, and escalating the danger by bringing him back was another – but even that would have been for the greater good if it meant Ford could now use his recovered life to _erase Bill from existence_.

It was a clear, logical answer. Why couldn’t Stanley see it? Ford had already been gone for thirty years! What did Stanley _expect_ him to do?

Besides, no matter what he said, it made no sense for Stanley to die for something Ford had done to himself. This was perfectly logical reasoning, and the fact that it was _Stanley_ didn’t—

Ford stopped and leaned his forearms against the door. His shoulders were trembling despite his best efforts to make them stop.

Someone yanked at the door from the other side, making him flinch. It was locked and didn’t open, though.

“Sixer? You in there?”

“Yes.” Ford drew a deep breath, involuntarily relaxing slightly at the sound of his brother’s voice. “Yes, Stanley, I’m in here. I’m tired and I need some privacy.” All perfectly true. “I’m inside the barrier and I’m not going to spontaneously combust or whatever it is you believe will happen. Just leave me alone.”

“Oh,” Stanley said. “Yeah. Sure.” The door creaked like Stanley was leaning up against it, not leaving at all. “You okay, though?”

Ford sighed and leaned back against the door, too. “I’m fine.”

“If you say so,” Stanley said, clearly disbelieving – in which case, why did he ask in the first place? “Look—” He stopped.

“What?” Ford asked after a few beats. If Stanley had something further to say, he should say it.

“I wanna know if Bill hurt you when he possessed you last night.”

Ford winced, but no – Stanley couldn’t have seen the blood stains. They’d been covered up, and Ford had carried the bedclothes away without uncovering them. “Yes,” Ford said evenly. “You saw my wrist.”

“I mean other than that.”

“No.” The cuts were hardly serious. Not worth talking about. Most definitely not worth the humiliation of showing Stanley exactly what Bill had been doing to him. Bill had puppeteered him enough already, and the important thing was preventing him from doing so again. Food and rest had already made him stronger, and whatever physical pain Bill had left him with would go away on its own soon enough – there was no need for anyone to _look_ at him. “I’m _fine_ , Stanley.”

Stanley snorted on the other side of the door, but thankfully didn’t argue. “Right,” he said. “I’ll be around if you need anything.” Heavy footsteps down the hall made it clear that he was leaving.

Ford sank down to sit with his back against the door. Yes, Stanley was concerned about him. Yes, Stanley had foolishly refused the opportunity to kill Bill Cipher for no other reason than that he wanted Ford to survive. A small wave of resentment shot through him again – it would have been a simple task, and Stanley had blankly refused, just like when he was asked to take the journal away. For being so insistently helpful, he was being extremely _un_ helpful.

And yet the fact remained that Stanley had offered an alternative, and Ford had failed to take it. The alternative had been less tidy and less fair, but it would still have worked. Bill would have been gone. And Ford would have been alive. Alive, thirty years in the future with the still-breathing remains of the only person who—

_There had to be another way._

It could have already been over, but it wasn’t. He pounded a fist weakly on the floor, torn between frustration and a faint whisper of hope.

Stanley would still do what had to be done if it became immediately necessary. He needed to trust that.

Think. Perhaps there was something he had overlooked? He was long overdue for a proper journal entry, too. And— His eyes drifted to the pile of cloth on the floor nearby. He should probably do something about those bloodstains.

 

* * *

Dipper was a lot less excited when he made his way downstairs for breakfast the next morning than he had been the day before. He hadn’t slept well, because as it turned out, cracked ribs were really annoying, despite painkillers and everything. It was almost impossible to be comfortable, and even Mabel had complained that he was groaning and grumbling during the night.

When he did sleep, he’d had nightmares. At least he hoped they were nightmares. The very real alternative was that Bill was actively trying to make him panic, and he didn’t like that possibility at all. He was worried enough anyway, without imagining that the barrier didn’t work and great uncle Stanford would be possessed and kill them in their sleep, or that Bill would be able to touch the rift from the other side and it would swallow the whole Shack. He hadn’t even _seen_ the rift yet! It was stupid. Great uncle Stanford might know how to tell if a dream involving Bill was actually a dream or not, but he wasn’t sure if he dared to ask.

He wasn’t sure if he dared talk to great uncle Stanford at all. Yes, Stanford had said he wasn’t mad at him yesterday. But it wasn’t like he’d been willing to talk to Dipper again after that whole fiasco, either. He’d just gone back to being twitchy and distant and yelling at Stan, and then he’d pretty much locked himself in the room with the barrier all evening. Mabel had assumed he’d gone to sweater town.

Dipper couldn’t shake the feeling that somehow it was all his fault.

He _did_ want to talk to Stanford, but there was a nervous whisper in his guts insisting that he’d just make him sleep again. He’d just make everything worse.

A smaller whisper insisted that the next time that happened, Bill would definitely kill him.

The rest of the family – Mabel, Stan _and_ great uncle Stanford – were already seated at the table when Dipper arrived, which only increased his nervousness.

“Morning, sleepyhead!” Mabel announced while helping herself to a way too overstuffed pancake like it was a perfectly normal morning.

“Morning, kiddo,” grunkle Stan added. Dipper mumbled a reply as he sat down on a chair and pulled a pancake over to his plate.

Great uncle Stanford didn’t say anything, but when Dipper looked up at him he found that the man was watching him. Well, Dipper could watch him back.

Actually, Stanford looked a bit better today. He wasn’t exactly smiling, but he didn’t look like he was prepared to bolt any moment, either. He was wearing the same shirt and sweatervest and trenchcoat as yesterday, and the trenchcoat was still awesome, just the kind of thing a real paranormal investigator would wear. Also, he’d shaved, and his eyes were a lot less bloodshot. Dipper noted that he was eating a plain pancake with just a tiny spread of syrup.

It occurred to Dipper that Stanford might have slept better than he had. That had to mean the barrier was working, right? He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand and reached for the maple syrup, wishing he could think of anything to say. Maybe apologize again?

Surprisingly, Stanford spoke first. “Dipper?”

Dipper almost jumped. “Yes!”

“Where did you get that hat?”

That was not what he’d expected to hear, not that he knew exactly what he’d expected. “Oh—This?” He touched the hat self-consciously. “It’s from the gift shop. Grunkle Stan gave it to me at the beginning of summer after some gnome ate my old hat.”

“I see.” Stanford frowned and turned to grunkle Stan. “Do you sell many of those?”

“Eh,” Stan said with a shrug. “Some. Mostly to out-of-state tourists – the pine tree is kinda iconic for the forests in this part of the country. I’ve got some other designs, too. Why – you want one?”

“No, no. But you’re right, it _is_ iconic.”

“Do you like it?” Dipper asked, mostly because he had no idea what Stanford was going for.

“I recognize it, that’s all.” He tapped his fingers on the table. “It might be a coincidence. I’ll have to do some more research before I know if it means anything.”

Dipper chewed on his fork, before noticing he’d never put any pancake on it. He quickly put it out of his mouth and pointed to Stanford with it. “Great uncle Stanford, I think—” He stopped. There was a rather weird connection he wanted to make here, but maybe that would be a mistake? Talking about Bill at breakfast would just make great uncle Stanford upset again, and just because Bill had called him “Pine Tree” didn’t mean the random symbol had some kind of significance, did it? “—I think it’s a great hat,” he finished awkwardly.

“Yes. Of course.” Stanford blinked. “The symbol is especially appropriate for the Pines family. Your name is still Pines, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

Stanford gave him a small smile, and Dipper decided he’d made the right choice not to mention Bill. “You know, Dipper,” he said, “’Great uncle Stanford’, is a mouthful. I suggest you call me ‘uncle Ford’, like your sister does.”

Dipper gasped. “Yes uncle Ford!” he squeaked. He wasn’t mad at him, _he really wasn’t mad at him_ —

“Yes, Dipdop, don’t be so formal just because you’ve idolized him all summer,” Mabel said with a grin, completely unnecessarily. Dipper glared at her, then turned back to Stanford. Ford.

“Look,” he said, too quickly. “I’m really sorry about yesterday and I definitely won’t let that happen again!”

Ford looked uncomfortable at that. “I believe I already told you there is nothing for you to feel sorry about.”

“I know, but—”

Mabel poked his cheek. “Not your fault, dummy,” she said over a mouthful of sparkly pancake.

Grunkle Stan snorted, then coughed, covering it up with a swig of his coffee.

Dipper swallowed. He didn’t want to look ridiculous, not when Ford was talking to him again! “So, anyway,” he said, trying to sound casual. “What are the plans for today?”

Ford chewed on a piece of pancake, then took a deep breath. “Well, since I am now functionally recovered from my bout of sleep deprivation—” He glanced meaningfully at Stan like they didn’t quite agree on that conclusion, “—Stanley and I will take a day trip to a certain location in the valley to collect a substance that will help secure the rift.”

Dipper perked. “Can I come with you?” he blurted.

“No,” Stan said immediately before Ford could reply. “Dipper, you’re hurt.”

Yeah. That. “But I can still—”

“It’s unnecessary,” Ford interrupted, “Besides, I have only two magnet guns.”

“Also, _no_ ,” Stan repeated, putting his coffee mug down on the table with a thump. “I’m not gonna have you run around with rib fractures and puncture your own lungs. Hot Belgian waffles, why does no one in this family have any sense of self-preservation?”

Dipper grimaced, but nodded reluctantly. Grunkle Stan was right. He _might_ be up for a walk in the woods, but running around and fighting gremloblins or something would probably be painful. Besides, if he messed up again, and Bill showed up— Ugh. Of course they wouldn’t bring him along.

“Wait,” he said, suddenly hearing what Ford had said. “Magnet guns? Where are you—”

“Can _I_ come with you?” Mabel interrupted brightly. “I have a grappling hook!”

Dipper tried very hard to be reasonable and not at all jealous of his sister’s lack of debilitating injuries, only partially succeeding.

Grunkle Stan and uncle Ford glanced at each other like they were actually considering it, too, but then Ford shook his head. “No, that’s unnecessary, too. I’ll have Stanley as backup, and although I don’t think we’ll encounter too much trouble, this isn’t a pleasure trip.”

Mabel shrugged. “Okay, but you have to promise you’ll have fun together!”

“I just told you—"

“Where are you going, anyway?”

Ford huffed and cracked an almost wicked smile. “Oh, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Poindexter here hasn’t even told me,” Stan said. “Says I’ll get it when I see it.”

Dipper’s eyes widened. “You can’t just leave it at that! Great uncle—Uncle Ford, you can’t just give us a _mystery_ like that!”

Ford’s smile faded and he looked uncomfortable again. “You’re right,” he said. “It was a mistake to mention it at all. Forget about it, Dipper. You’re an intelligent child, but please, I ask you not to follow in my footsteps. You’ll only get hurt again.”

Well, _that_ wasn’t cryptic and ominous at all. Dipper sighed and went back to his pancake.

 

“Dipper,” Mabel said, lying on the living room floor with a sheet of paper, some colored pens, and her pig by her side, looking up at Dipper when he sighed for the third time in as many minutes. Grunkle Stan and his brother was still upstairs in the attic storage space rummaging for equipment, and Dipper was in the TV chair, trying to convince himself not to stow away in the car so he could see where they’d go. The TV droned on on low volume about the town reparations after the gravity reversal the other night, but neither of them paid it any attention. “Stop being so mopey. I’m trying to write a letter here.”

“I’m not mopey,” Dipper said. “I’m frustrated.”

“Yeah, you’re mopey! They didn’t want me to come either, and I didn’t even almost die yesterday. All I’ve got is this little bruise where the unicorn kicked me.” She pulled up her sweater and showed him. It was definitely not much of an injury.

“I know.”

“Oh!” Mabel said, holding up her pen. Dipper noticed she had drawn a pretty good portrait of Stan and Ford, with Ford looking almost the same as Stan but with brown hair. “I almost forgot the season finale of Ducktective is tomorrow! It’s just as well this girl isn’t going anywhere today – I’ve got some preparations to do for that!” She grinned. “Quack quack!”

Dipper rolled his eyes. He did like Ducktective, and he was looking forward to seeing the finale, but it was no substitute for real mysteries. Like where grunkle Stan and uncle Ford were going today. But he had to get himself stomped on yesterday, hadn’t he? There had to be _something_ he could still do.

“You can go get the mail!” Mabel suggested. Wait, had he said that last part out loud? “I heard the post car a while ago.”

In fact, getting the mail turned out to be an awesome idea that immediately improved Dipper’s mood. There was a package for him! He’d almost forgotten about it in all the excitement about Stanford, but he’d ordered this from a store in Portland a few days ago, and now it had finally arrived.

No, he did _not_ squeak like mouse and hug the box when he laid eyes on it. Well, okay, he did. But only because it was his favorite thing in the world. It almost outweighed the injuries and nightmares and disappointments. _This_ was what he was doing today. He grabbed the heavy package and rushed inside, cracked ribs and all.

“Mabel!” he exclaimed. “You’ll never guess what was in the mail for me!”

“Dogs!” she guessed wildly. “Dogs with hats!”

“No, even better!” Dipper insisted, putting the package down on the floor with a flourish. He ripped the plain wrapping paper off and tore the cardboard box open with a huge grin, revealing the box art. It was new and included ogres, elves, unicorns, and the clearly recognizable evil wizard Probabilator. “It’s my favorite game of all time! Dungeons, Dungeons and More Dungeons!” Dipper held it up triumphantly. “You wanna play it with me?”

“Well...”

Of course, she didn’t. Dipper should have known that, and not just because he was already having a bad day. He might have kinda sorta chosen to forget how much Mabel hated math. Just because the game involved math didn’t mean it was boring like homework! He knew she’d see that if she only tried it out, but every time he tried to explain he just made the grimace on her face worse. Not even the hot elf on the box was enough to win her over.

When Soos arrived in the middle of Dipper’s failed attempts at explanation, Mabel used the distraction to run away to the other side of the room with her half-finished letter. But then Soos didn’t want to play with Dipper either. For one thing, he had work to do repairing the Shack, and for another, he was apparently more into live-acting fantasy adventures with foam swords. Which was stupid – why would anyone want to do that when they could use _dice_?

Dipper briefly considered trying to call someone else, but that wasn’t really possible. He would die of embarrassment if he tried to ask Wendy to play with him, and her teenage friends were out of the question, too. DD&MD was a nerdy game after all, and they’d stop thinking he was cool faster than a greased lightning bolt. Who else were there? Pacifica Northwest would murder him, and Candy and Grenda were both Mabel’s friends.

Basically, he was down to either feeling sorry for himself again or doing something drastic.

He got the rulebook, the board, and the screens set up outside by the front porch and roped the goat into playing with him.

Surprisingly, Gompers was pretty adept at rolling a 38-sided die, as long as you knew how to stop him from eating it. Dipper just had to make up a character for him – a mutant humanoid goat, of course – and interpret what he wanted to do inside the dungeon. It was... okay. Maybe not as much fun as a real game, but better than not playing.

“So, you go down the stairs,” he told Gompers, “and—”

The door on the porch behind him opened abruptly, making the goat baah loudly and run off into the forest.

Dipper groaned and turned around. “Would you _mind_ —”

“Oh, hey kid,” grunkle Stan said, clearly not noticing he’d just made Dipper’s player flee. “What ya doing? Some kinda game?”

“Yeah!” Dipper picked up the die and rolled it between his hands. “It’s this fantasy-talking, level-counting game that involves statistics and graphs and magic spells!”

“Have fun with that.” Stan shrugged. “Coming, Sixer?”

Ford emerged from the doorway patting the pockets of the trench coat as if making sure he hadn’t forgotten anything. When he passed Dipper, he glanced down, and – stopped. Stared. His eyes widened into circles and Dipper could have sworn he saw stars in them.

“Uncle Ford?” Dipper asked warily. He’d never done _this_ before. “Is something wrong?”

“Is that—” Ford paused long enough to get off the porch and crouch on the ground next to Dipper. “Is that Dungeons, Dungeons and More Dungeons?”

Dipper dropped the die in his lap. “You know of it?”

“Know of it?” Stanford blinked and finally stopped staring at the board, turning to Dipper. “It’s my favorite game in the universe!”

“Really?” Dipper leaned forward, suddenly too excited to know what to do with himself. “You like it? It’s such a great game but I can’t find anyone to play with me and—”

“With pen and paper…” Ford mumbled, a wistful smile on his face.

“…shield and sword!” Dipper filled in, with a grin, overjoyed when Ford chorused with him for the second half of the motto: “Our quest shall be our sweet reward!”

Ford giggled like he couldn’t believe what he was doing. Dipper was laughing too, and he definitely couldn’t believe it. His new uncle who was the author of the journals liked to play DD&MD. He had to stop himself from making a very undignified sound of happiness, and almost didn’t notice grunkle Stan chuckling above them.

“Now that’s the Poindexter I remember,” Stan said, more gently than Dipper would have expected. Stan always made fun of him for liking nerdy stuff – it’s not like _he_ would ever play this game. “I knew ya’d hit it off with Dipper, he’s a nerdling just like you.”

“Well,” Ford said. “I’m—”

“What do ya say? It’s not like the rift can’t wait another day. Wanna drop everything and play with him?”

Ford abruptly rose to his feet. “Absolutely not.” Dipper’s stomach sank.

“Hey, I’m just saying,” Stan said, raising his hands. “It’d be good for ya.”

“It would be a frivolous waste of time, and you are well aware of that, Stanley. I’ve wasted enough time already, and I’m more than well enough now that that any further delay would be unconscionable.”

“Yeah, ya said that. It’s still gonna have to be me who picks up the pieces if it turns out you’re not up to it.”

“Yes. I know you will.” Ford sighed softly, then turned and started walking towards the car.

“Wait!” Dipper called, getting to his feet. Of course uncle Ford wouldn’t want to play now that he was busy going on some world-saving mission, but— “Would you play it with me later? When you come back?”

_Please please please—_

Ford hesitated long enough that Dipper was sure he was going to say no. Finally, he dropped his shoulders and looked at Dipper with a strangely open expression. “Yes,” he said. “I would like that very much, actually.”

 


	13. An Adventure

Stanford went into the car still reeling from Dipper’s game – and as irrational as it seemed, he found that he now looked forward to something other than Bill’s demise. Two days ago he would have called that impossible, the very idea unthinkable. But if the rift was secured and he himself stayed inside the warded room for the game—

The rift was the priority, though.

He didn’t even care that Stanley insisted on driving, even though Ford was the one who knew where they were going, and the likelihood of him falling unconscious while driving was close to zero at this point. He’d slept enough for a lifetime by now, even when accounting for a few unpleasantly panicked midnight awakenings. Bill had failed to reach him, and that gave him a better ground to stand on than he’d had since he’d first discovered the demon’s true intentions. Even the various aches seemed quite negligible this morning.

Of course, it was just like Stanley to still be possessive about his car – some things never changed. But they were going on small forest roads at relatively low speeds anyway, so the unnecessary hassle of giving directions was rather minor, all things considered. Besides, the passenger seat was comfortably familiar.

As he settled in, déjà vu struck him like a heat wave to the face. _This car. The smell of leather and gasoline. A bumpy road. Stanley on his left._

It had been over a decade, and they had both been mere children, but the feeling was strong enough that he had to shake his head to dislodge it. He could practically taste the toffee peanuts.

Wait a second. He glanced at the old man in the driver’s seat – grey hair, shorts, and a printed shirt gaudy enough to be Fiddleford’s – presently looking nothing at all like the wide-eyed sixteen-year-old who had once been so proud of this very vehicle. It had been more than _four_ decades.

“I can’t believe you still have the same car,” he said, running his fingers over the glove compartment.

Stanley grimaced. “Yeah, well. Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t believe it. It’s _not_ the same car.”

Ford blinked, taking another look around. “It’s not?” Lacking photographic memory, he couldn’t be absolutely certain down to the details, but— “I do remember this car quite well from our childhood, Stanley. I know I saw the ‘Stanleymobile’ vanity plate outside, too.”

Stanley’s face might have looked pained for a moment, but then he chuckled. “That’s right. Confused the hell out of a buncha people when I got it.” He raised his voice in mock concern. “’But Stanford, why would you want the wrong name on your plate?’ Heh.”

Ford pursed his lips. The reminder that Stanley had been using Ford’s name for all these years stung, but it only made the present question more puzzling. “This is a replica, then. A copy.”

“I’ll take it as a compliment that you fell for it, Poindexter. It’s not like I’ve shown it to anyone else who remembers the original.”

“I didn’t ‘fall’ for anything,” Ford bristled. “I merely didn’t think you’d go to the trouble of making a replica of your first car, especially not when you were claiming to be me. I’m sure there has to be better cars on the market in the 21st century.”

They were interrupted by an especially bumpy stretch of the road – it was even less well maintained than last time Ford had seen it – making the car jump and come dangerously close to going off-road. Ford rolled his eyes at Stanley’s reckless driving, but assumed he could handle it like he always had.

He took the moment to take a closer look at their surroundings, looking for landmarks in the forest. There was still a bit to go, and there were no people in sight, which was expected, but also a relief. Other people meant other possible pawns of Bill, especially now that Ford himself was somewhat less available to the demon. It was fortunate that nothing required them to go into town.

“There’s never gonna be a better car on the market than the old El Diablo,” Stanley said eventually, bringing him back to the conversation. “Got my hands on one of the same model in workable condition a few years back, so I touched her up a bit.” He patted the wheel affectionately. “She’s a good car. Feels like home, ya know?”

Of course Stanley would bring something back just because he missed it. Ford wasn’t sure if he wanted to smile or scoff, so he did neither. “It is a good car,” he admitted. “And it certainly brings to mind late sixties New Jersey, if that’s what you’re going for.”

Stanley grinned. “Sixties New Jersey, the glory days.”

Ford closed his eyes briefly and tried to recall the strong sense of déjà vu he’d experienced. “I won’t argue that,” he said. “But that was a long time ago.”

“You don’t say.”

Fair enough, but Ford shrugged it off. A question danced on the tip of his tongue until he finally gave in and asked it. “What happened to the original?” It didn’t matter, especially not when Stanley had acquired such a decent facsimile, but somehow he still wanted to know. “Did you lose it when you—when you were on the road?”

Stanley smiled wryly. “No, I still had her when I got here. But, well – told ya Stanley Pines died, didn’t I? Car crash, horrible wreckage, almost nothing left of the body. The car was identifiable, though.”

“Oh.” Stanley had really destroyed his own identity thirty years ago. It was hard to wrap his mind around, to get a grip on as something that really happened. He should have been okay. He should have had twelve years _not_ to get tangled in his own dreams and desires into dealing with demons, but instead he’d done _that_. As if Stanley Pines was nothing. As if _Stanford_ Pines was nothing, as if they were interchangeable. It hurt, in more than one way, but mulling over it would only be detrimental to the current mission.

There were a few moments of awkward silence, but fortunately Ford found they were approaching their destination, or at least as close to it as they could get to it by car. They would have to hike the last few miles cross-country. He told Stanley to pull over and park where the road widened slightly.

“This is the magical part of the forest?” Stanley said doubtfully as they got out of the car and locked it. “Doesn’t seem very magical to me.”

“That’s right,” Ford replied, back in his element with navigating the Gravity Falls valley. “The most magical part of the forest is further to the west, where I sent Mabel and her friends yesterday. This part is in fact relatively mundane, but it’s got a few secrets of its own, the biggest of which is our destination.” He checked the compass that Stanley had found for him in the attic, then charged ahead through the pines.

He quickly fell into a walking rhythm. The clear forest air, the smell of pine needles and leaves, and the brisk walk towards a clear and obtainable goal was invigorating. For once since long before going through the portal, Stanford felt truly alive. Perhaps he shouldn’t be enjoying something so simple when so much was at stake, but the sunshine filtering through the trees seemed to warm him down to the marrow, and he’d been cold for so long.

Stanley grumbled a bit about his speed, but he kept up. In fact, Ford was sure he caught him smiling several times.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he registered that the hike was more tiring than it should have been. Brief spells of dizziness was nothing to worry about. The sensation of limbs trembling with exhaustion had been such a common occurrence for the last few weeks that it hardly seemed worth acknowledging. Stanford was used to walking and even running for far longer distances with little to no trouble. This was nothing.

When Stanley pointed out that he looked winded, it was just annoying.

“I’m fine!”

“Dammit Ford, slow down!” Stanley repeated. “You’re heaving like a bellow! Your face looks like a boiled lobster!”

“We’re almost there,” Ford panted, evading Stanley’s attempt to grab his arm. And, in doing so, unbalanced himself into putting his foot down wrong on the uneven ground, falling on his face.

He caught some of his weight on his arms, but still ended up with a faceful of pine needles and a hard root smashing into the wounds on his chest, scratching something open and knocking a groan of pain from him.

He rolled over on his back.

He really did need to catch his breath.

The sky above was blue, partly concealed behind foliage and tree trunks. Right in his line of sight was a large birch. On it was – fixing him in its gaze – a large, otherworldly eye.

He could have sworn it blinked.

_Trying to run from me, smart guy?_

No. Panic pushed him back on his feet in an instant. Every instinct screamed that he had to get away, that Bill was doing something to him, but as soon as he found his feet he stumbled backwards, almost falling again. Blood was pounding in his ears and black spots threatened to take away his vision.

He couldn’t see. He was going to _black out_.

“Stanford!”

“I’m fine,” he wheezed, blinking hard. A flailing hand found something to hold onto, keeping him from falling over. He _was_ fine. There was air and he could breathe – too hard, too fast – and all he had to do was make his body catch up with him. He felt nauseous and could still hear Bill laughing in his ears, but he was fully awake and Bill couldn’t hurt him unless he fainted. Bill was watching, yes, but he couldn’t do anything. Ford was still in control. His hands were shaking independently of his struggling lungs, but he was alright.

Stanley. He’d grabbed onto Stanley, and somehow he was steadier than any tree. Ford leaned on his brother and finally the world stopped spinning.

“I’m fine,” he repeated after a moment. “It was just a headrush.”

Stanley made a non-committal noise and pushed him off so he could look at him. Meeting Ford’s eyes and confirming Bill’s absence, he relaxed visibly. “I did tell ya to rest another day,” he grumbled.

“It’s nothing to worry about,” Ford managed, still panting. “I also recall—recall that I told you we have no time to lose.”

Stanley produced a plastic water bottle from his bag and handed it to Ford, who took it and drank gratefully. His lungs were starting to get back to an acceptable level of labor, but his heart was still racing, and his limbs were trembling uncontrollably. Exhaustion, still, despite eating and sleeping. Ridiculous.

“So, what just happened?” Stanley asked, before taking the bottle back and taking a swig himself.

Ford bit his lip. What just happened was _weakness_. He had no more excuses to succumb to that. He’d stumbled, and Bill had taken advantage of the moment to startle him. “Bill is watching us,” he said simply.

“Well.” Stanley grimaced. “He would be. But he can’t do anything to ya unless you’re unconscious, right?”

“Right. He has no means of attack, no pawns, not here.” He had to believe it. Trees were just trees, even if Bill could see through them. “I suppose— I suppose I stumbled because I overexerted myself. I had no reason to believe this particular hike would be strenuous. Considering I’ve walked it many times in the past.”

“Except in the past you weren’t recovering from being a half-dead wreck. I figured as much when your face changed color.”

Ford let go of Stanley completely and crossed his arms. “I am not a half-dead wreck!”

“No, you’re only a quarter dead now.” Stanley smirked briefly. “Seriously, are you okay? Can you tell me honestly that you won’t fall over if a deer looks at you the wrong way?”

“Deer are rarely dangerous, Stanley. Unless perhaps it’s a peryton, in which case the wings would give ample warning of its true nature.”

“That wasn’t—” Stanley sighed. “Look, are we gonna turn around and go back to the Shack, or can I really trust that this won’t happen again?” He sounded sincerely worried. Perhaps even afraid.

Ford clenched and unclenched his hands. Carelessness and weakness could lead to disaster. He might have been a hair’s width from blacking out just now, and that thought made him tense up all over again. He couldn’t stop Bill from watching, but he _could_ make sure he was unable to do anything else. All he had to do was to get a hold of himself. He wasn’t—

He wasn’t doing this alone.

He took a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair. “It won’t happen again,” he promised. “I’ll take it slower from here. And I’ll have one of those chocolate bars you packed.”

 

* * *

It was almost midday when they finally reached their destination, which turned out to be a clearing on a hill. The opening in the trees gave the place a good view of the local landmark hanging cliffs, so if it hadn’t been so out of the way, Stan figured it would have been a nice spot for sightseeing tours. Other than that, he couldn’t see anything special about it.

Ford sat down on a convenient rock with a sigh, wiped his glasses on a sleeve and motioned for Stan to come closer. His face was still a bit darker than it should have been, but it probably looked worse than it was because he was so ghostly pale in general. Alive, though. He was very much alive and would very much stay that way if Stan had anything to say on the matter. He had taken it slower on the last bit of the hike, at least.

“Are you gonna tell me what we’re locking for yet?” Stan asked. “Still don’t see any metal to use those sci-fi weapons on.”

“They’re not weapons, they’re tools. And yes.” Ford raised his chin. “Perhaps you can make a guess if I tell you we’re looking for an adhesive stronger than anything on Earth?”

Stan grimaced. “I really hope it doesn’t mean you’re gonna break the rift open and pull something out of there, because then I have to tell you that’s crazy reckless.” Not that he was always opposed to crazy reckless, but that rubbed him the wrong way.

“What? No!” Ford shook his head and got back to his feet. “No, guess again.” He pointed at the landmark. “Take a look at the shape of those cliffs – doesn’t it remind you of something?”

Stan narrowed his eyes. He had seen those cliffs thousands of times, and the unnatural-looking indentations in them were hardly news. He had no idea what Ford was going for. “It looks like Paul Bunyan took an axe to them to open up the valley,” he said. “At least that’s what I tell the tourists.”

Ford pursed his lips. “That’s an explanation I never considered,” he mused. “It is, however, wrong. Behold.” He held out a closed hand above Stan’s eyes, then dropped a small keychain charm to dangle in his field of vision.

A plastic UFO.

“Wait a minute.” Stan snatched the charm out of Ford’s hand. “Where did you get that?” Sure enough, it was the same kind that he sold in the gift shop. No keys either, just the charm.

“Seriously, Stanley?” Ford threw both hands up in exasperation. “Does that really matter?”

Stan glanced from Ford to the charm and back, feeling more confused than anything else. “Look, Sixer, I appreciate that you still have it in you to shoplift! But you could have just asked.”

“I would have used my own if I had been able to find it,” Ford said stiffly.

Stan winced with guilt. That’s right. He’d taken _everything_ from Ford. No legs to stand on getting stingy about a keychain charm. “Nevermind.” He handed the charm back to Ford and took a deep breath before he could say anything he’d regret. “Keep it if you want it. I promise we’ll get everything straightened out as soon as—”

“It’s unimportant!” Ford interrupted with some fire, though he still took it back. “You’re looking at the trinket and fail to see the big picture. Look again. Look at the cliffs.” He dangled the charm in front of Stan’s eyes again, and this time Stan actually looked.

The shape of the UFO fit the hole in the mountain pretty well.

Stan’s eyes widened. “You’re saying a freaking UFO crashed through that mountain?”

“Exactly!” his young twin exclaimed, looking awfully smug about it. Then again, smug shoplifting nerd Sixer was a whole lot more relatable than terrified wreck Sixer, so that was a win. “According to my research,” Ford continued, “the entire valley of Gravity Falls was formed when an extraterrestrial object crashlanded here millions of years ago.”

“Not Paul Bunyan, then.” Thinking about it, he should probably have known something like that was up. It did make a few things about the portal make more sense. “The wreck is still here, isn’t it.” It wasn’t a question. “You’ve been there before, and that’s where we’re going now.”

“Indeed.” Ford put the keychain away and bent down to push at the rock he’d been sitting on. It slid a few feet to the side surprisingly easily, revealing a dirty metal surface underneath. “Sometimes the strangest things in the world are hidden right under our feet. Stand back.” He took out his magnet gun and aimed it at the metal, and the next moment a square slab of the stuff flew out of the ground and attached itself to the gun’s muzzle. Below was a dark shaft into the underground.

Stan was fascinated in spite of himself. Somewhere inside him a little boy was screaming excitedly about treasure hunting. Together with Ford, even. He swallowed.

“I used to raid this place for parts for years,” Ford was saying. “Some of the more exotic materials for the portal came from here, too.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Some of that shit just wasn’t in any literature I could get my hands on.” He was still staring down at the hole. “And your notes weren’t exactly complete, especially not when I only had that one journal.”

“You still figured it out, though. Frankly, Stanley, that’s amazing.”

The compliment caught him by surprise. “Meh,” he said, waving it away. “Took me long enough.”

There turned out to be a wire ladder made from perfectly normal aluminum already hanging from the edge of the shaft, making it possible to climb straight down into the darkness. Ford took the lead, claiming he’d been there countless times before, and besides, all the aliens had been dead for millions of years. He sounded a bit like he was trying to reassure himself, but it definitely made sense to Stan that there wouldn’t be any living aliens onboard a spaceship that crashed an eternity ago. Something else making their lair there, maybe – this was Gravity Falls – but probably not aliens.

Stan was glad he was more or less over his fear of heights, because as they climbed, the narrow shaft soon widened into a large chamber that made it extremely obvious how high above any kind of floor they were. The sunlight from the shaft caught the walls and pillars below and turned into an eerie glow, illuminating something that could almost have been a giant cavern. Stan only looked down once, then kept his eyes on the ladder until he could step out on the floor, but the sight that awaited him was more than worth it. Reflected pearlescent glow on gently curving walls and pillars faded into the distance. Cracks, rubble, stray roots and patches of half-dead moss littered the ruins between alien symbols and long-broken equipment. The air was chilly, but felt strangely clean. It was the kind of sight people would pay a fortune to see.

“Whoa.” Stan’s voice echoed slightly in the large space. He glanced at Ford, and said, straight-faced, “This is the greatest thing I ever saw, and I once saw a gnome bathing in squirrels.”

As he’d hoped, Ford cracked up. His face split into a grin that he was obviously trying to suppress, head bowed and shoulders shaking in muffled laughter. “What’s wrong with you?”

Stan couldn’t help himself. “Bad genes, I suppose.”

“You—” Ford took a deep breath and rubbed his temples. “This is serious, Stanley!”

“I know.” Stan shrugged. “Let’s go get your glue.”

“This way.”

Ford led the way through the big chamber, past piles of rubble and patches of pale grass – hard to tell if it was normal plants taken root down here or alien ones. The faint patch of sky from the shaft above gave a surprising amount of light, almost like the gleaming walls and pillars were made to reflect back as much light as possible. That had to be marketable.

“Fiddleford and I used to come down here all the time, studying their technology and language,” Ford said, an odd wistful tone in his voice. “I haven’t been here since before—before he left. A couple of months, give or take thirty years.” He sighed softly and rubbed his own arms like he was cold. “It’s the kind of place that time doesn’t seem to touch.”

“Fiddleford,” Stan repeated. “Fiddleford McGucket.” Dipper had mentioned it earlier, but it was still hard to imagine that the crazy old man had once been a genius on par with Ford. Weirder things had happened, though. “He was really your assistant?”

“Yes, and my friend. We met in collage.” Ford kept going for a few more steps, then stopped. “Did you know him at all? Did he ever talk to you?”

“Depends on what you mean by ‘talk’,” Stan dodged. It had very seldom been a coherent conversation, after all. Thinking back, though – “The first time I met him he ran from me screaming. That might have been a clue that you didn’t really part on the best of terms.”

“No, we didn’t.” Ford looked down at his feet. “Never mind. Of course he would have avoided you.” He kept walking, and Stan followed in silence.

Would’ve been nice if he’d known about McGucket sooner – if he’d worked on building the portal originally he might even have been able to help repair it. But hey, it would have been too much to ask for Ford to mention his friend’s _name_ in his notes. He’d have to tell Ford at some point, but right now did not feel like the time to say ‘by the way, the guy’s completely insane, lives in the dump, and doesn’t remember you at all’.

Suddenly Ford halted by a precipice – the floor simply stopped with no warning and gave way to a pitch-black chasm. It didn’t seem like it was broken or anything either, more like the aliens just decided to have a hole there for some alien reason. It was empty except for a smooth round pillar, going straight down into the darkness some four or five feet from the edge.

“We’re going down there?” Stan asked, pretty sure he knew the answer.

“Yes,” Ford confirmed. He was standing on the edge, one moment of lost balance away from falling to his death, which was a bit unnerving. He also seemed to seriously consider jumping, too, at least if the way he looked at the pillar in the gaping hole meant anything. Stan resisted the urge to drag him away immediately, but stayed close just in case. “This used to be some form of elevator shaft to the next level of the alien craft,” Ford explained. “The mechanism is long defunct, but there is no staircase route, so this is where we’re descending.”

“How?”

Ford looked at the magnet gun in his hand, which seemed to be trembling very slightly. “Normally I would simply jump over to the pillar and attach the magnet gun to it, holding on and allowing gravity to pull me down at a convenient speed.” Stan shuddered – there was absolutely no way he himself was doing that, fear of heights mostly cured or not, and it sounded like it could go wrong in a thousand ways for Ford, too. He was _not_ recovered from all the shit he’d put his body through.

For once, Ford seemed to have realized that on his own. “However,” he continued, “after the minor incident on the way here, I’m no longer certain I can trust my body to hold up to that kind of stress. An accident at this point would spell disaster.”

“Yeah, I’d say.” Stan paused, since Ford still didn’t move from the edge. “Look, I really hope you’re gonna say you have an alternative.”

“Yes! Of course!” Ford nodded, hesitation gone, and finally turned to walk along the edge to their right. “Fiddleford insisted on installing a ladder here as well, just like at the entrance,” he explained, pointing at the start of another wire ladder attached to the edge close to a solid block of ancient alien who-knows-what.

Stan slapped a hand on his face. “If you had a ladder here all along, why didn’t you just say so?”

“I just did.” Ford raised his chin. “It’s not my preferred method of descent, but it will have to do.” He hurried down the ladder before Stan could argue the point. “Come on.”

The light from above didn’t reach the lower level of the spaceship, but Ford brandished a flashlight that reflected on the walls in a similar way, giving more than enough light to see their surroundings. Ford seemed to know his way around, but Stan couldn’t help dragging his feet, trying to take it all in. The urge to go back here at some point and collect as much sellable loot as was humanly possible was only increasing. There was the skeletal remains of an actual alien still slumped near a control board. _Anyone_ would have a field day with that.

Anyone except Ford, apparently.

“So,” Stan said slowly as they walked. “I’m pretty sure this place’d be a giant breakthrough in at least a dozen academic fields.  You never thought of releasing the news to the world? Becoming rich and famous?”

Ford looked back at him, a strange glint in his eyes. “No,” he said. “By the time I first found this, I was already working with Bill.” He turned away again. “The portal was the priority at that point. Nothing else seemed to—Everything else seemed insignificant compared to what he claimed the portal would do.”

“Hm. Infinite alternate universes, right?”

“Yes. Let me make this clear though – it did not lead to anything of the sort.”

Stan swallowed, feeling an accusation in those words. “Well,” he said, “the alien spaceship is still here, and no one has published it yet. It’s not too late, ya know. You could change the world with this.”

For some reason, Ford flinched visibly at that. “Perhaps,” was all he said, not sounding convinced at all.

There seemed to be nothing more to say, so for a couple of minutes the only sound to be heard was two sets of softly echoing footsteps. Eventually they reached a dead end.

“Is this a door of some kind?” Stan guessed.

“Yes, it is.” Ford pointed the magnet gun to a spot on the ceiling, causing a small lever to pull downward. At the same time, the wall before them split neatly in half, leaving a gap of less than an inch in the middle. Ford grabbed the left edge and pulled to the side, slowly widening the opening until Stan took the other side and pulled the whole thing open in one go. Muscles, he still had them.

Ford gave him a nod of acknowledgement, then carefully stepped inside. “This is the storage facility,” he explained. “Now all we have to do is find the adhesive. I believe I know where it is.” His eyes flicked nervously around the room as if half expecting an ambush, though Stan couldn’t make out either movements or sounds other than their own.

He wasn’t sure exactly what they were looking for in here, but there was a bunch of small, flat six-sided boxes scattered in heaps on the floor. All of them were the same size and shape, and any one of them could contain anything. Actually, any one of them would probably count as treasure if you looked a little closer. The thought was inspiring; pocketing a few random ones was more or less a reflex.

Ford had quickly found his way to a curved nook in the wall lined with some kind of control panels, whatever a cargo hold would use control panels for. He’d put the flashlight aside, relying on the reflected light from the walls, and was working on taking out even more of the six-sided boxes from an opening under the controls, frowning at them one at the time.

“Any idea what these are for?” Stan asked, tapping something that might have been a dead monitor screen.

Ford grunted, still going through the boxes. “I believe these compartments were meant to be a secure storage space for extra valuable or volatile substances, though many of them were broken and tossed around during the crash.” He scowled at a container as if the design on it had insulted him. “The rest are the security systems, of course.”

“Of course.” Stan idly flicked a switch back and forth. “Wait, security systems?”

“Yes, the cargo would have been heavily guarded back when the vessel was up and running.” Ford glanced at Stan and added: “Don’t worry, though. Everything’s defunct by now. Most of it has been busted for millions of years.”

“Geez, way to give me a heart attack.” Stan snickered and rummaged through a few more of the little boxes in the heap closest to the panel, not getting any wiser about what was in them. “Hey, wanna tell me exactly what it is I’m supposed to be looking for, here?”

“Oh. Yes, of course.” Ford showed him the nearest box. “They’re marked with these symbols, see. The symbol for the adhesive is two concentric circles flanked by two smaller circles on opposite sides, each connected to the larger circle with a straight line.” He sketched the design over the unrelated box with a finger. “It’s still unknown what the alien thought process behind the symbol was, but like a lot of their symbology, it’s easy to remember memetically! If you imagine the center as—”

Stan was viscerally reminded again that Ford was _there_. Not dead, not a fever dream, but right in front of him and nerding out about some alien weirdness. Still young, like the past thirty years had been nothing but a nightmare. It hadn’t sunk in yet, if it ever would. It was over, and Ford was there.

“I thought it would be right here, though,” Ford continued, a stressed edge to his voice. “The other one we found was in this very unit.” He made a frustrated grimace. “If it’s not here, this might take longer than I hoped. It could be anywhere.” He waved his arm around the room.

“You sure there’s more of it at all?” Stan couldn’t help asking. Could it be that they were down here for nothing?

“There has to be!” Ford slammed the container he was holding down on the control panel.

“What happened to the last one, anyway?”

“It was almost empty to begin with. We wasted it on useless experiments, and now that I _need_ it, there isn’t any more?” He leaned on the panels, looking down at his hands with a frustrated grimace.

“Hey, I was just asking. Don’t give up yet. Like you said, it might take some time to look though this mess, but that’s why you brought backup, am I right?” He gave Ford a pat on the back, earning him an unreadable glare.

“You’re right. I’ll go through this pile, you start over there,” Ford directed with a gesture.

Stan sat down on the floor by the pile and started shuffling the boxes like bricks. All of the designs included circles, stupidly similar, but he’d find the one Ford had described if he put his mind to it. It couldn’t be harder than—

Ford must have heard something before Stan did. Stan’s first indication that something was wrong was Ford spinning around, back stiff and ramrod straight, staring into the darkness on the far end of the area.

For a moment there was nothing there, but then it was like a light switch was turned on. The walls didn’t just reflect the one flashlight any longer, but there was some kind of light source in the distance, bouncing off the walls and making the whole place look like the electricity bills had _not_ been neglected for the past million years.

Two giant, floating bubbles were approaching.

In hindsight, Stan should probably not have been surprised. Then again, long-dead alien security systems had been pretty far down the list of credible threats. A stray dragon finding its way down here and hoarding the six-sided treasure boxes, or a herd of manotaurs picking the place for their man-cave – sure. But million-year-old automated systems? It was like someone who died before humanity was a thing was deliberately trying to call him out for being a burglar. He decided he hated those aliens.

“Damn,” Ford said quietly from a few feet away, clearly on the verge of hyperventilating. “It’s—it’s okay. Stay calm. They’re _not with Bill_. They’re just security droids. They won’t even touch us unless we—” He broke off, raising his magnet gun in a tightly clenched, trembling fist.

“You’ve met these before?” Stan got to his feet and took a protective step closer to Ford.

“Yes, once! I thought it was the last one! They work by detecting fear, so all we have to do is—all we have to do is not to—” He was struggling with himself, breathing too fast and shallow again. “ _Shit_.”

One of the bubbles extended a small brick-like piece in Ford’s direction, and Stan had seen guns ready to fire before. He reacted on instinct, without thinking, throwing himself at Ford.

 


	14. The Drones

Everything seemed to be going in slow motion. The drones were approaching, blocking the way out. Stanley was scrambling to his feet, hexagonal packages clattering around him. The drones weren’t their real enemy – they didn’t belong to Bill, they were just a distraction, they wouldn’t hurt them.

Unless they would.

They shouldn’t even be active. What if Bill had reactivated them?

No, no, they wouldn’t attack. They’d only attack if they sensed an intruder, and an intruder was defined as anyone who didn’t feel like they belonged. Anyone who was scared. He wasn’t scared.

He couldn’t afford to die here. He couldn’t afford to be captured and taken to who-knows-where in the universe. _He couldn’t—_

It wasn’t working. He needed to take a deep breath and calm down, think rationally, but all he could imagine was Bill’s glee when he found that Ford had been taken down by some ancient robot while searching for a sealing agent that might not even exist. These drones should all have been defunct. He’d all but delivered himself right into their claws while thinking it was safe.

 _Nothing_ was safe, but he couldn’t allow himself to go down here. All he had to do was to walk past the drones. He couldn’t allow himself to become a target. The magnet gun trembled in his hand, not actually a weapon, but a defiance.

He tried to reassure Stanley. Reassure himself. _It wasn’t working._

Ford heard the drone’s gun fire at the same instant as Stanley slammed bodily into his side. For a moment both of them seemed to be hanging in the air, the light of an energy bolt sharp in his eyes, but then his left side hit the floor with a thud that shook his bones, Stanley crumbled on top of him.

Stanley didn’t stay crumbled for long. Ford was still trying to understand what had happened – the drone firing, aiming at him, had it missed? – when Stanley got back to his feet. His old twin’s shoulders were heaving, even as he placed himself between Ford and the approaching _(bullies, because Stanford was a freak and a wimp and needed protection)_ alien drones.

Ford wasn’t a child any longer, but he might as well be, cowering behind his brother as if that was enough to protect him when everything came crashing down. The closest drone fired again, but Stanley ducked it, the shot going wide over his head, then launched himself forward and punched the drone right where the gun emerged from its body. There was an unexpected metallic clang of brass knuckles meeting alien alloys, and the drone, though hardly damaged, was momentarily sent spinning from the blow.

He needed to _get away_. Those things would give chase, but not forever. There were still ways out of this. Where was the magnet gun? Did he drop it when he fell? If he aimed it right he might be able to use it to gain some distance—

The second drone opened up for the capture, prehensile metal arms shooting out like attacking snakes. Ford saw it and called out, but he was too slow or the drone was too fast, and the arms were already tangled around Stanley’s ankles, pulling his feet out from under him and making him fall headlong into one of the piles.

Stanley twisted, avoided for a second the additional arms that tried to wrap themselves around his wrists, and made a truly impressive sit-up in order to ineffectively punch at the appendages attached to his legs. “Stanford!” he yelled, even as his wrists were captured and he was hauled the last few feet off the ground in into the waiting maw of the drone.

Ford finally spotted the magnet gun on the floor. He dove for it, but for a moment his mind blanked on what to do when he had it in his hand. Stanley was captured. The other drone had stopped spinning and was facing him again. Ford could escape, but only if he did so alone. _Now_.

“Get out of here!” Stanley kept yelling. “You gotta get back to the kids! Tell ‘em—” His voice was cut off by the sphere closing around him.

The panic that made Ford’s heart race shifted flavor. _He wouldn’t let that ancient automated system take Stanley._

At first he didn’t even connect the sound of another shot being fired with the burning cold force that shoved his whole body against the console. There was a frayed hole in his clothes on his left side, but it hurt less than he’d expected it to. Maybe the weapon wasn’t fully functional, and it was surely intended to be nonlethal, and in any case he could still move.

One drone was rapidly departing with its prisoner, and the other was opening up to pull Stanford in. He had a fraction of a second to take aim, and he used it.

The magnetic force pulled him through the air and made him smash into the smooth surface of the drone, momentarily disoriented and arms shaking from the impact. The automaton refused to react to his arrival and opted to keep speeding though the spaceship in dizzying twists and turns, making him swing precariously as he clutched the magnet gun with both hands. On some level he was aware that Stanley had stopped beating uselessly on the inside of the sphere and was instead staring at him, but he didn’t have the strength to spare for charades through a bubble. His arms felt like wet noodles and barbed wire. He had to take this drone down, and fast.

There might be a way. The magnet gun wasn’t an EMP weapon, but it did have a limited range magnetic pulse function. And he knew from experience that these alien systems were recognizable as electronics. At point-blank range, like right now, it should be able to fry the drone’s programming. He only had to find the right setting, and for that he had to _see_ the settings, and for that he couldn’t be hanging an armlength below the tool.

He struggled to find some purchase for the rest of his body, curling up against the drone instead of being pulled every which way like a dangling flag. He could have done it three months ago. Easily, even! He swore when the drone changed directions and he slipped, losing all progress.

Screaming helped. Somehow, painfully, he managed to pull himself up.

A magnetic pulse. Maximum strength.

The effect was immediate and devastating. The lights from the drone went off, and so did the propulsion systems. The sphere dropped like a lead balloon, carried forward slightly by its own momentum, but falling the several meters to the floor with remarkable speed.

Ford lost his grip on the handle in the fall, landing on his arms and knees and barely managing a clumsy roll. The impact knocked all the air out of his lungs, and for a moment the pain was intense enough that all he could do was to hope very hard that he hadn’t broken any bones.

A few jagged breaths later and he found that he was relatively fine. All limbs were accounted for and reasonably obedient as he forced himself to stand up in the semi-darkness. With the drone’s light gone, very little reflected light reached to this part of the ship – and to be honest, he had no idea where exactly they were. At least he could see the round shape of the fallen drone a few meters away. Stanley had to be there.

He took a step, swayed like a drunk man, and promptly fell on his knees again.

That was… unexpected. Not to mention alarming. He swallowed, took another deep breath and tried again. This time the results were better. Good. He might have taken a hit and a fall, but he was still functional. He could still fight, and Bill couldn’t—

This wasn’t even _about_ Bill.

“Stanley?” he tried.

Now that he listened, the silence was deafening.

The fallen drone seemed to be intact, at least based on touch and shape. Ford ran his hands over it in search of an opening, and was validated when he found the split where it was designed to open up. It might be a mere crack at the moment, but at least the seal must have been broken by the magnetic pulse. He put the fingers of both hands into the crack and pulled, tearing the sphere apart with minimal resistance.

Someone groaned. “Stanford? That you?”

He was alive. Ford found himself falling to his knees again, this time from sheer relief. He leaned his forehead against the side of the opening and finally felt like he could breathe, blinking against something itching in his eyes.

“Everything hurts,” Stanley muttered.

“Yes,” Ford agreed tiredly. “That’s a good summary of the current situation.” He raised his head again, but all he could see in the darkness was a vague, black shape within the opened sphere. “I didn’t think—I’m sorry, Stanley.”

“Stanford.” The shadow that was Stanley fell forward and grabbed Ford by the forearms. “Are you okay?”

“Am _I_ okay?” Ford grabbed Stanley’s forearms in return and shook them. That question was completely unwarranted. “Do you realize that this drone was programmed to take you into space? I don’t know if the facility it would have headed for even exists anymore! You could have been dead or worse!”

Stanley froze for a moment, then took a strangely shaky breath. “Thanks,” he said, patting Ford’s arm.

“I—” Ford was at a loss for words. The emotions that had made him act without hesitation were raw and ragged and strewn with lingering bitterness and resentment – but somehow, time-displacement or not, he didn’t want to lose Stanley again. “I couldn’t just let it take you away.”

“Oh shut up,” Stanley said and pulled him into a hug.

Stanford couldn’t have articulated why, but he wrapped his arms around Stanley’s back and held on almost as hard as he’d held on to the magnet gun. There was pain, but for the moment he didn’t care. Stanley smelled strange. His hair was too coarse. He was as old as their father. He’d once accidentally pushed Ford into a portal, then worked for decades to get him back.

Somehow it all made more sense than it had ten minutes ago.

Eventually he disentangled himself with a gasp of pain, finally starting to realize that getting shot by that drone’s gun did, in fact, hurt exactly as much as he would have estimated.

Stanley startled at Ford’s sound. “You _are_ hurt, aren’t ya?”

“Yes,” he admitted, reluctantly. “I got shot by the other drone. I don’t believe it’s life-threatening.”

“Wait a sec,” Stanley said, fumbling though his pockets.

“How about you?” Ford deflected.

“A bump on the head, some bruising, and I guess that first shot grazed my shoulder,” Stanley replied curtly. “Here we go.” He’d found what he was looking for and turned it on – a small pocket flashlight, the backup unit to the one Ford had left in the storage facility. Their surroundings immediately reacted to the light source and reflected it back by multiples, giving them a comfortable light to see by. At least Ford thought so – Stanley tensed up with a grimace and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment.

“Right,” he said a deep breath later, squinting at Ford. “How bad is it? You bleeding?”

“No.” He glanced down at his side, touching the blackened edges of the hole in his clothing, but not quite daring to put his hand through and touch the skin. The mark was about the size of his palm, sitting at elbow height on the left side of his stomach. Even though it was mostly covered by the layers of torn clothing when he was sitting, it was obviously raw and swollen, but not bleeding. “The drones don’t use bullets,” he informed Stanley, “And in fact I believe their weapons are designed to be non-lethal. They’re meant to—” He gasped again as the pain spiked for no apparent reason. “—meant to take prisoners alive.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” Stanley said hesitantly. “You don’t sound fine, though.”

“Perhaps not.” In fact it hurt like fire, lighting up the wounds Bill had carved from inside, and he would really enjoy a painkiller right about now. Except no, a good painkiller would put him to sleep, and he couldn’t sleep, so he’d just have to endure it.

Stanley sighed. Ford noted that he did have a tear in his shirt next to his collar, showing a thin rash of reddened skin underneath, but otherwise he looked more or less unharmed. Not carried off into outer space, and that was—it helped.

“Can you walk?” Stanley asked, starting to rise and holding out a hand for Ford.

“Of course.” It wasn’t a problem. He still took Stanley’s hand for support as they both stumbled to their feet outside the drone and ended up leaning on the bubble and on each other. Ford’s body felt unnaturally heavy, and the pain from the wound made him hiss through his teeth once, but it was no worse than that.

“We need to go back and find the adhesive,” he said.

“I’d say no, but the bag's still there, and it's not like we can go home without it. You sure—”

A sudden increase in illumination made Stanley fall silent; Ford could feel him tense up like a bowstring beside him. The second drone was approaching – of course it would have been too good to assume it had lost track of them.

Ford drew a deep breath, or perhaps a sigh, and watched the drone. He realized to his own relief that this time, it wasn’t going to target him.

“Tell me what you did to knock the first one out,” Stanley asked. “I’ll do it to the other bastard.”

“I don’t believe that’s necessary,” Ford said. His limbs might feel like lead and his side like a raging fire, but he wasn’t trembling anymore. He squeezed Stanley’s arm.

“You sure?”

“I meant what I said earlier. It won’t recognize you as an intruder unless you fear it, so all you have to do is to feel something else. Its masters are long dead. You have more right than it to be here.”

Stanley huffed decisively. “Damn right I do.”

The drone paused before them, and Ford looked at Stanley. He’d closed his eyes, and there was no telling what he was thinking, but the drone had passed him over the first time until he started throwing punches – it would do so again. _It wouldn’t hurt either of them this time._

It occurred to Ford that despite everything else, they were still the exact same height.

The drone analyzed them for a few seconds, then turned around and left, disappearing soundlessly into the distance.

“Hah,” Stanley said to its back, smacking a palm into the sphere behind him. “Go back to your dead alien cops, willya! Tell ’em you don’t mess with the Pines!”

Ford released a breath he might have been holding and found himself caught up enough in the moment to grin and flip the drone a double-fingered bird, never mind how his hand seemed to weigh a metric ton.

“High six!”

Stanley looked happy, just like he had for a moment back in the basement, right after they had captured the rift together, but his face was drifting in and out of focus, wobbling as if underwater. That wasn’t right. Ford tried to raise his hand to match Stanley’s, but the movement apparently turned his legs into jelly.

“Stanford! You okay?”

Stanley’s voice seemed very far away, but Ford was almost certain that his arms were holding him up. This wasn’t right at all. Yes, he’d taken a bruising. Yes, the drone’s weapon was intended to incapacitate its victims. But he’d been doing fine up until now. In fact, it barely even hurt anymore.

“I’m not sure,” he slurred, trying to reply to the question.

Except the reason that it didn’t hurt might be the fog descending on his brain. He couldn’t feel much at all. Or think.

He was losing consciousness.

The flare of terror made his whole body spasm, putting enough strength back into him for a moment to stand on his own legs, leaning forward onto Stanley.

Unconsciousness would mean Bill taking him back. He couldn’t—He’d slept already. It shouldn’t happen. He couldn’t let it. His fist clenched uselessly around some fabric as he tried to gather enough wits to speak. “Don’t let—don’t let him—”

_“Hey.”_

He was an idiot believing the danger was over. Just for a moment. The alien drones were nothing. Stanley was nothing. _He_ was nothing. He had to—

“Stanford, what’s going on? Is it some kinda poison? A concussion? Are you going into shock? What—”

_“Smart guy.”_

He struggled to focus his eyes. Stanley’s face was taking on strange shapes. Triangular shapes. There was something hard behind him – underneath him – and he realized he was lying down on the floor without having felt how he got there.

_“Wow, you’re really trying to fight it, aren’t you? Not like it’s gonna kill you, IQ! It’s just a long-expired neuro-sedative made for a completely different species!”_

“Stanford! Stay with me!!”

“I’m trying.” He could barely hear his own voice. He tried to find his hand, to pinch or hit or claw at himself, whatever it would take, but even that seemed to be miles away. His fingers might have moved, but he felt nothing as his vision faded into blackness.

 


	15. Bill

It was like coming down from a high.

Despite taking the kind of bruising he was really starting to get too old for, Stan was happier than he’d ever deserved to be. Ford had his back. Ford _cared_. The second bubble robot left them alone like the Pines twins back in business was too much for an alien machine to handle – and then Ford collapsed like a ragdoll.

It wasn’t fair.

Nothing was ever fair – that was one of the first lessons life had ever taught him – but it was still the first objection that crossed Stan’s mind. This shouldn’t be happening, and Stan couldn’t even tell what ‘this’ was. He tried to ask, more and more frantically, but Ford himself didn’t seem to know. He spasmed once, twice, but by the time Stan managed to lower him down to the floor he was still again.

Too still.

“Stanford!” Stan was screaming now, panicking, and it was a good thing the fear-sensing drone was already gone. “Stay with me!”

“I’m trying,” Ford mumbled, his mouth barely moving. His eyes stayed half-open, but Stan wasn’t sure he could see him anymore.

He was fading too fast, too sudden, and this wasn’t like any concussion Stan had ever experienced or heard of. It had to be the wound, but it was barely bleeding, so it couldn’t be blood loss, but that just meant it could be anything. He could be dying. He’d said it was non-lethal, but did he _know_?

“Come on, Stanford!” Stan yelled, shaking his young twin as hard as he dared. “You can’t do this!” _You can’t do this to me. Not now._ “Tell me what I gotta do!”

Ford’s fingers twitched. Stan squeezed his hand, but there was no more response.

He was still as death.

_No._

_Hell no._

Stan shuddered and needed a deep breath before he managed to let go of Ford’s hand, putting a couple of stiff fingers on his throat instead, fumbling for a pulse. He didn’t release the breath until he found it. Was it weak, or was it just him being unable to judge? At least it was there. It seemed to be steady. Ford wasn’t dead. He was still breathing, too, his chest still rising and falling under the sweater west.

He was still alive and still here, not on the other side of any portal or – well, in outer space or something. Neither of them was.

It’d be fine. He was still here and still alive and _he’d just saved Stan’s life_. Stan wasn’t going to lose him again.

But he could be dying from some slow poison, or he could be going into a coma, or he could wake up perfectly fine in an hour, and Stan didn’t have the medical know-how to tell. He sure didn’t have thirty years to learn. He clenched both fists against Ford’s chest, trying to think around the tears gathering in his eyes.

Of course, Ford’s _other_ problem made sure Stan wouldn’t be alone with this for long. Despite expecting it, Stan winced at the unnatural glint that lit up Ford’s glasses for a moment, like they were hit by light from below. Ford’s body didn’t go any less limp, but a toothy grin started to open up on his face. The next moment Ford’s glossy, half-lidded eyes were open wide and alert with a dim, creepy yellow glow.

“Hiya, Fez!” the demon said, though Stan wasn’t even wearing the hat. “Just the guy I’ve been meaning to talk to!”

“You.” Stan gripped Ford’s shoulders tightly. Yeah, this was bad – he couldn’t imagine being possessed by a demon was good for Ford now or ever – but right here, right now, it was almost welcome. It was a _target_. “What did you do to him?” he growled, leaning down over Ford’s face.

Bill snorted. “Pfft! I didn’t do a thing. This is the kind of predicament ol’ Fordsy gets into all without my help.”

That might be true or not, but Stan didn’t really care. “He got shot,” he snapped. “And you’re—”

“Sure did!” Bill interrupted. “Wanna know what it’s doing to him in great detail?”

That sounded like a taunt, or a challenge. Stan slammed a fist on the floor next to Ford’s face, because slamming it into Ford’s face wasn’t really an option no matter how much the guy wearing it deserved it. This was the guy who’d used and abused Ford to the point where he’d almost killed himself in self-defense. And he dared show himself in Ford’s body _now_. Like it belonged to him. “What do you want?” Stan snarled.

Bill didn’t even blink. Instead he laughed, a high-pitched, inhuman sound that should never come from Ford’s mouth. “That’s hilarious. Did you know he could have gotten away scot-free if he’d just run for it instead of deciding to save _you_? Bet he regrets that one now!”

Stan inhaled sharply before he could stop himself. “Well, _you’re_ gonna regret a hell of a lotta things once I get a hold of you in person.” He wasn’t gonna rise to the bait, wasn’t gonna start doubting Ford’s choice just because he might possibly have been fine if he _hadn’t_ cared.

“You’re in luck! I want to see you in person too!” Bill raised one of Ford’s lower arms with a jerky movement, making Stan press down harder on his shoulders, but he didn’t make any attempt to break free. “That’s exactly what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Great.” Stan scowled, but this wasn’t a good time to lose his calm. “I’ll tell ya this: You _don’t_ wanna meet me in person, ‘cause I will _end you_ , demon or not. You’re not getting anything from me, and I’m not gonna let you hurt Ford anymore, so don’t even try. I suggest ya give it up and _scram_.”

“Feisty. I like it!” Bill chuckled. “But hey, I can help you! I mean, Sixer’s injury isn’t my fault, but it sure is serious, and I think you wanna do something about it. Before it’s too late, am I right?”

Stan stared at him. That was definitely a threat, and not one he could ignore.

“You want him ba-ack,” Bill drawled. “I’ve been watching you, you know. That’s your one and only motivation – don’t know how one man can be so stubborn, but hey, you want what you want, and _I_ sure got some use out of this stupid meatbag! You could, too!”

“Shut up!” Stan leaned in over Bill again and shook him, though more gently than he would have liked. “What. Do. You. Want?” It came out as a clipped string of words.

Bill raised Ford’s chin and chuckled again, like he’d hooked Stan and was about to reel him in. “I just wanna talk!” he said. “You and me, we’re practical guys. I’m sure we can come to an agreement.”

Stan had heard spiels like that before, and they never led to anything good. Still, he didn’t have much choice. “Talk, then.”

“Oh no,” Bill said, stiffly raising Ford’s right arm and patting Stan’s hand on his shoulder. “Can’t have a gentlemanly discussion with me and Sixer lying on the floor like one of your human carpets!”

“Why the hell would I want to have a ‘gentlemanly discussion’?”

“Oh, I dunno.” Bill twitched Ford’s shoulders into an awkward restrained shrug. “For courtesy? Or because you’re wasting our time? I mean, _Sixer’s_ time.”

“Stop calling him that!” The guy was already fraying Stan’s nerves with the yellow eyes and unnatural grin on Ford’s face, but Stan’s own nickname for his brother made it worse. Once was a fluke, but he _kept doing it_.

“No way, he likes it! Makes him feel right at home.” Bill laughed. “So, gonna let me up already?”

Stan tried not to shudder. As much as he wanted to keep some kind of control over the situation, this wasn’t helping Ford. The bastard knew that Stan was desperate, but he had to keep his head on. Get the other guy talking. Figure out the best way to get Ford out of this alive. He moved away and gave Bill some space to get up.

It was like watching a marionette show. Ford’s body was still unnaturally limp, even when Bill made it move. He rose to his feet in stages, using one joint at the time in jerky and uncoordinated movements. Even if it hadn’t been _Ford_ , seeing a human being act like that would have been headache-inducing in a way that had nothing to do with the bump on the back of Stan’s head. What little he had seen of Bill possessing Ford back in the portal room hadn’t seemed this obviously off at all – it almost looked like the demon wasn’t really possessing Ford right now as much as he was puppeteering him on invisible strings.

“Whoa,” Bill said, spinning around with Ford’s arms outstretched. “This is _interesting_. That thing really did a number on him! Feels weird!” He stopped, using Ford’s hands to smack his chest a few times, grinning like a loon. “This is more like driving around dead meat than being in a living body.” He laughed as if he’d said something funny.

Stan rose to his feet and crossed his arms, deliberately keeping his face neutral. Ford wasn’t just asleep, that much was obvious, so of course Bill would feel that when possessing him. Made as much sense as anything.

Bill turned to face Stan. “Hi! Nice to meet you properly at last! I’d offer you tea, but there doesn’t seem to be any.” He made an exaggerated shrug with Ford’s limp arms.

Stan didn’t say anything, waiting for the demon to get on with it.

“I’ve been wanting to talk to you for a while,” Bill continued, starting to walk a slow circle around Stan. He was moving like a doll, half limp and half stiff. “It’s surprisingly hard to get a hold of you in the mindscape, I’ll tell you that! Hard to believe you’re related to this one.” He slapped Ford’s chest again with an open palm. “But here we are, face to face! More or less! Nice to meetcha, name’s Bill Cipher.” He stopped in front of Stan and offered up Ford’s hand for a handshake.

“I know.” Stan kept his arms crossed.

“And you’re Stanley Pines,” Bill said, turning the outreached hand into a pointing finger. “The man who punched a hole in this universe.”

“What’s your point?”

“The point is, that’s an accomplishment! You’re a clever guy. Not enough people give you credit for that.”

Flattery? _Seriously?_ “Sure, and the ones who do tend to be the same ones who actually think I’m some kinda sucker.”

Bill laughed at that. “It’s funny how you think you understand anything!”

“I bet it is,” Stan said evenly. He was trying to be patient, but it was kinda hard when Ford was right there, and still out of reach in at least two ways. “So here’s my stupid human question – what is happening to Stanford and what are you suggesting I do about it?” He tried not to raise his voice.

“Oh. Right.” Bill’s grin grew wider as he stopped in front of Stan and put Ford’s hands on his hips. “He’s dying.”

Stan had braced himself for that answer. Whether it was true or not, it was the obvious thing for a demon with an agenda to say. Somehow it still felt like a slap to the face. For a moment all he could do was watch as Ford’s chest rose and fell under Bill’s grin. He was still breathing. Still alive.

“Wanna save him?” Bill tilted Ford’s head to the side.

So that’s how it was gonna be. Ice settled in Stan’s chest as he straightened his back, ready to listen to the demon’s pitch. He didn’t have much of a choice on that one. Bill knew that as well as Stan did. “How long do we have?”

“Oh, I’d say about thirty minutes, give or take some.” Bill slammed a fist into the wound on Ford’s side. “You should see the cellular degradation going on! The tragic thing is that there’s absolutely nothing you can do about it. And neither can I! So he’s done for and you’re stuck with me for—”

“ _What_!?” Stan reacted in spite of himself, heart beating painfully in his chest.

“Just kidding!” Bill laughed, pointing at Stan with both hands. “There’s totally something I can do! But only if you help me, and only if we get going right away!”

Stan exhaled, but didn’t unclench his fists.

Bill threw Ford’s arm over Stan’s shoulders with a thump, imitating intimacy. “See, right now I’m incorporeal and can’t really do much of anything. But once I get all the way into this dimension, to be here in person – oh, I could do all sorts of things! This kinda damage would be a cinch to fix!” He made a clumsy attempt to snap Ford’s fingers.

There it was. “You want me to give you the rift. Or else Ford is gonna die.”

“Bingo!” He patted Stan’s shoulder. “I knew you were clever.”

Stan took a deep breath. “I don’t have it.”

“Sure you do!” Ford’s head twitched to the side. “It’s in your bag that you dropped in storage! Sixer didn’t want to leave it with the kids, remember? Get with it, Fez!” He released Stan and took an awkward step forwards, walking with all the grace of a determined puppet.

Stan didn’t stop him, but stepped up next to him, letting him lead. He might as well. The rift _was_ in the bag, of course. Stan hadn’t wanted to bring it, but Ford had insisted that it wasn’t safe in the Shack, with only the kids to guard it in case Bill tried something. Stan had agreed eventually, as long as they packed the jar in a locked briefcase with lots of padding, but none of that was gonna matter if he had to _give_ it to Bill. Which was exactly what the demon was counting on.

When he closed his eyes he could still see Ford dangling from the bubble robot, struggling to bring it down and free Stan. Ford yelling at him that Stan could have died. Ford gasping in pain from an alien gunshot wound. Ford collapsing like his bones turned into jelly.

“Look,” he said to Bill, feigning casualness, “What makes ya think I wanna save him if it means you’re just gonna end the world right after?”

Bill gave him a giddy smile. “’Total Global Annihilation’!” he said, using air quotes. “That’s what he wrote, and you didn’t care last time. Of course,” he continued conversationally, “Sixer likes exaggerating. I’m not gonna annihilate the world – I’m gonna liberate it! Get rid of all these restricting laws and regulations that keep controlling your lives!” He skipped a step, stumbled, and almost fell over. Stan quietly grabbed him and kept him upright.

“Anyway, what did this orderly world ever do for you? I mean, Sixer, he’s a freak and a loner, but at least he could _try_ to live within the lines! But you? How many times did you go to jail again?” He laughed, waving Ford’s arms around as he talked. “It’ll be a party, and you’re invited! You’ll love it!”

Stan didn’t reply. He kept walking, keeping an eye on his brother’s body in case it would stumble again.

Fortunately, it seemed Bill knew where they were going – Stan sure didn’t. The giant spaceship had gone by too fast from inside the bubble, and besides, he’d had other stuff to think about than geography at the time. So if nothing else—if nothing else, he was getting straight back to the storage facility instead of getting lost in an underground maze. And Bill walked, even though Ford couldn’t, so Stan didn’t have to carry him.

Bill hummed to himself as he walked along, some old tune that Stan only half-recognized. Once in a while he’d take a moment to pinch or hit some part of Ford’s body, like he was trying to find out how well it was holding up. Or just enjoying causing Ford pain – Stan couldn’t help wince every time he touched the wound itself, but Bill didn’t seem to notice or care.

At one point Stan deliberately tripped Bill up, giving himself an excuse to hold on to Ford for a moment while steadying him. He could tell that he was still warm and still breathing. Still alive, so far.

_Please stay that way._

Eventually they reached a place where the reflected light from Stan’s pocket flashlight was joined by some other reflections from further along the hall, echoes of Ford’s light that had been left behind. Stan guessed it had been about ten minutes, maybe fifteen, since Ford’s collapse, even though it felt like it could have been much longer. Soon enough they reached the doorway that Stan had pushed open earlier. The cargo area was just as they’d left it on the other side, piles of six-sided boxes and all. Ford’s flashlight was standing on the floor near the panels, and Stan’s bag was right where he’d shrugged it off next to one of the piles.

Bill flopped onto the top of that pile in some kind of sitting marionette position, playing with Ford’s fingers and looking expectantly at Stan. “Fordsy’s still alive,” he reported. “But I can’t guarantee he’ll be that way for much longer unless I do something to fix him. Do we have a deal?”

Stan grunted as he sat down and opened the bag, checking the contents. The briefcase holding the rift was right there. The key was in his chest pocket, not that he couldn’t just as easily open it with a paperclip. He forced himself into a salesman’s smile.

Bill tilted Ford’s head. “Just open the case and give it to me, Fez. It’s not portal science!”

“You know what?” Stan leaned back slightly, his hand still in the bag, artificially casual and artificially smiling. “I don’t think I will.”

That seemed to take Bill aback, but only for a moment. “Hah! Of course you will!” he said. “You’re really ready to lose him again? Permanently? After he just got himself hurt saving your skin? Oh, I don’t think so.”

“Maybe not,” Stan said. His heart seemed to be beating its way out of his chest, but he kept his tone casual. “But you don’t know me as well as you think you do.” He swallowed and slowly pulled the memory gun from the bag. After all, this kind of situation was exactly why Ford made him promise to carry the thing with him.

Bill blinked, one eye at a time, but then threw Ford’s head back with something between a screech and a laughter. “Oh sure! Erase his memory right when for once he doesn’t actually hate your guts? That sounds like something you’d do, alright!”

“If he’s about to die, what do we have to lose?” Stan asked rhetorically, fumbling with the dial to type his brother’s name.

“His _life_ , knucklehead!” Bill threw Ford’s arms up, his smile wavering slightly. “Which is worth more to you, your brother’s life or a suffocating world order that never did anything but frustrate you? Come on, pal, we’re on the same side!”

“Could be, but I’ve got other family members who like it here.” He was almost done with the dial.

“They’re invited to the party, too! You and Sixer can name anyone you like for the VIP treatment!”

“Don’t want it.” Stan raised the gun, the words ‘Stanford Pines’ shining on the display. He was _not_ letting his hand shake for this. “Don’t need it. We’re not gonna end the world today.”

Bill banged Ford’s hands on his knees. “And why not? Because Sixer’s a drama queen you decided to listen to him for once? I thought you were smarter than that, Fez!”

“Didya, now?”

“You’ll **_watch him die_**.” Bill’s voice changed into a roar, unnatural and almost definitely not coming from Ford’s throat.

“Maybe.” Stan forced a shrug, keeping the gun steadily pointed at Ford’s head. “Unless, of course, he’s not actually dying. I might be willing to talk, then.”

Bill’s smile faded.

“Don’t wanna die? Either show your cards or get outta here. I’ll give you to the count of three.”

“You’re making a mistake.”

“ _One_.”

“You’re on my bad side now, pal, and I’ll still get that rift one way or another!”

“ _Two_.”

Ford’s body crumbled. He fell to the side, then rolled limply down the pile to the floor.

Stan almost crumbled too, only half in relief. The conviction that supported him seemed to run off like so much dishwater, leaving him empty. The hand holding the memory gun fell to his side, gun clattering on the floor, and the other hand clutched the edge of the bag with whitened knuckles. It felt like the security robot had captured him again, like he was enclosed in a small bubble where he could only see his surroundings through thick unbreakable glass. Ford was lying with his face averted a few feet away from him, still as death.

He was right. He _knew_ he was right.

Just because Bill hadn’t chosen to stay and admit it didn’t mean he wasn’t right. It just meant that Ford was demon-free and able to rest, and there was a first-aid kit in the bag, so what was he waiting for?

Ford would yell at him for not pulling the trigger on Bill when he had the chance. But he _would_ be alive to do that yelling.

_‘Don’t listen to him.’_

That’s what Ford said, both the first and the second time he’d expected to be possessed. Bill was a liar. Bill had tricked and manipulated Ford, and he’d do it to anyone. Besides, Stan knew cons, and claiming that Ford was dying in order to get make him do something he would otherwise never do was too perfect a con. Too perfect to be true. Stan was a gambler, and the situation Bill had presented him with was rotten. Every instinct in his body told him he was right. He’d made the right bet, this was the only way to win.

But it wasn’t just his own life on the line, and the possibility that he was wrong held him down like shackles.

The memory eraser was still clenched in his hand. If he’d been wrong, he could—

He took a deep, shaking breath and dragged himself the few feet to Ford’s side. “Stanford?” he said softly, not expecting a reply.

Turning his brother around to lie on his back, he felt for a pulse on his throat. Still there, still steady. He removed Ford’s glasses and studied his eyes for a moment, but yeah, Bill was definitely gone.

Stan’s hands trembled slightly as he pulled at the cloth around the wound. It was ugly, like a mix between a burn and a bruise. He knew there’d been a lot of impact behind it – he’d felt as much when the first shot grazed his own shoulder. Of course, the one on his shoulder stung sort of like a burn too, now that he stopped to think about it. And Ford’s was much larger and darker, blistering and running with clear fluid, making the frayed clothing around it wet and sticky. There were some cracks in the skin where blood came through, but hardly a lot of it.

Something must have been riding on that shot and entered his body, or otherwise this unconsciousness wouldn’t be happening, but Stan had no idea what it could have been. Still, the aliens did take live prisoners, and Bill was a con artist with every reason to lie about it. In any case, cleaning and wrapping it up couldn’t hurt.

Ford kept breathing, but otherwise his body could have been dead meat, heavy and limp.

Stan propped up his head on a couple of the little boxes, then got the scissors from the first-aid kit to get rid of the sweaterwest. It already had a large hole, no point in trying to save it. Starting from the bottom hem, Stan opened the whole thing up at the front, pulling it to the sides before more carefully pulling away and cutting off the cloth from the area around the wound on Ford’s left side.

The dark blue shirt underneath turned out to be strangely dirty, or at least full of unexpected stains, but Stan didn’t get any further with that thought before he started unbuttoning it. The next moment, the sight of Ford’s skin made him curse out loud.

There wasn’t just the one wound. There were cuts – not deep enough to be dangerous as such, but a lot of them. The more buttons he opened, the more he realized they covered the entire front of Ford’s body. They weren’t fresh – not from today – but they weren’t healed, either. Some had turned into nice dark scabs, but a lot of them were red and swollen. Hot to the touch. Some filled with pus. There was dried blood as well, on his skin and on the shirt.

The cuts formed triangles. Of course they did.

Stan remembered the broken credit card from last night, and Ford’s insistence that he was fine. He’d been tortured in his sleep, and he hadn’t said a goddamn word about it.

“Damn you, Poindexter,” Stan muttered even as he carefully removed the sides of the shirt to free both the older wounds and the new one, but he didn’t feel it. He could have _prevented_ this. He’d been trying to respect Ford’s privacy at a moment when he was clearly terrified, but he could have stopped this if he’d only been there. If he’d checked on Ford while this was going on—Shit, it must have taken hours to do all this with a broken credit card. And Stan hadn’t noticed.

These cuts would scar. Even after healing, Ford was going to be marked with that demon’s pattern, perhaps for the rest of his life. It was—it was amazingly petty. Stan couldn’t blame Ford for freaking out, but it had been almost two days, and the wounds hadn’t even been cleaned.

Stan pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes for a moment. At least he’d gotten the bastard to leave, for now. There were some water and disinfectant in the first-aid kit – probably not enough for all that, and the alien blaster wound was still the most dangerous one, but hell if some of those cuts wouldn’t lead to blood poisoning if they weren’t taken care of.  

The half-hour Bill had promised passed as Stan worked on cleaning the wounds, and Ford was breathing just as steadily as before – but not showing any signs of coming to, either.

Stan would wait as long as it took.


	16. Words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want everyone to know that the lovely novantinuum (Chromatic Dreams on AO3) has made a beautiful full color 4-page comic out of a scene from chapter 6.
> 
> [Go look at it now!](http://invisibletinkerer.tumblr.com/post/177966725233/novantinuum-i-desperately-wanted-to-illustrate)
> 
> It's absolutely amazing - the body language, the expressions, the _backgrounds_...! I'm completely blown away.

_“See ya on the flip side, Sixer!”_

Triumphant laughter drifted towards him from nowhere, until it stopped abruptly.

For a moment he believed he was dead, and it was, shamefully, a relief.

But he wasn’t, was he? He couldn’t be. He was lying – no, sitting – on something. There was clearly an ‘up’ somewhere above his head, a ‘down’ below his behind, and his legs were stretched out before him. Something propped up his back. Something was slung over his shoulders. Everything felt unnaturally heavy, like the weight of the world was literally holding him down, but he was—he was breathing, yes.

The realization made his slow respiration hitch as a shudder went through his body. _His body._ He made his hands flex, slowly, numb and heavy but clearly there. His feet twitched, far away but still attached. He was obviously still alive, still incarnate.

But that didn’t mean anything good. He’d collapsed, and there was no telling how long he’d been out. Bill must have been out there, and Ford hadn’t been able to prevent it, despite everything.

Forcing his eyes open, he was greeted with a blur of blue and gray for his trouble. At least it wasn’t yellow.

Wait. Where was Stanley?

“Ford?” As if in reply, Stanley’s voice – strangely hushed – came from somewhere close by on his right. The weight on Ford’s shoulders shifted, and so did something that had been pressed against his side. A wave of relief hit him before he realized that he didn’t know enough to assume that it _was_ Stanley, that Bill hadn’t done anything to him. This was why he should have stayed alone, not dragging other people into his own mess. He was so _weak_.

“Stanford!” Stanley’s voice became louder. “Stanford! That’s you, right? You okay?”

Ford tried to answer, but his mouth seemed to be filled with lead and cotton. “Hrngh.” No. That wasn’t a word. He tried again. “S’me.” Better.

Stanley made an unidentifiable sound of his own, and the next moment he was holding on to the sides of Ford’s face, pressing something – his forehead? – against Ford’s. Ford blinked, getting an eyeful of Stanley’s gray hair before he managed to focus on his old twin’s eyes. Human eyes.

A small whimper of relief might have escaped him, and the next moment Stanley’s arms wrapped around Ford’s shoulders, squeezing him briefly. It was more reassuring than it should have been, and Ford almost dared hope that he hadn’t caused the end of the world yet.

Articulating words was an effort, but Stanley clearly expected him to say something, and he needed answers. “Where’s—Bill?”  He wanted to ask more – _Where’s the rift? Is the world still there? What did he do? How did he leave? How am I still alive? Did he hurt you?_ – but asking about Bill’s whereabouts summed up enough of it.

“He left,” Stanley said. “I told the lying bastard to fuck off.” That sounded too easy, but Stanley took Ford’s hand and squeezed it, and Ford felt obliged to squeeze back. “How do you feel?”

“Numb.” Blinking again, he tried to determine how much of the blur in his eyes were due to that numbness and how much was natural. “My glasses?”

“Here.” Stanley handed them to Ford, who took them despite his free arm weighing approximately three times its normal weight. More precisely, that would mean his muscles were operating at a third of capacity. Which was a lot better than zero. Clumsily putting the eyewear on his face, he drew a sharp breath when he realized where they were.

The small hexagonal packages. The floor-to-ceiling control panels. _Stanley’s duffelbag_ —

Somehow they had gone back to the storage facility while he was out.

“Stanley!” he managed, alarmed. “You didn’t—deal?”

“Hell no.”

“Oh. Good.” He exhaled slowly, _wanting_ to trust Stanley – that Stanley _wouldn’t_ – but unable to relax. He squeezed Stanley’s hand again. “The rift?”

“Still in the briefcase, in the bag. No one’s touched it.” Stanley slipped back a bit, leaning against the wall next to Ford. “There’s not gonna be any apocalypses today, so don’t worry about it. Are you—”

“I have to,” Ford interrupted. The numbness was fading, but it was still a struggle to talk. “Worry about it. My responsibility. He—he possessed me again. I couldn’t stop it. I tried to, but I—”

“Stop it,” Stanley said, dismissing him. “Yeah, you couldn’t make him go away – big deal. I could. That’s why ya brought backup, right?” He flashed a grin, and despite how the irreverent way of talking about it irked – as if it was nothing – it did serve as a reminder of why he’d brought Stanley in the first place. Backup. Assistance. _Help_.

He nodded, then rubbed his face with leaden hands, trying to sort out a conclusion from all the guilt and confusion that whipped back and forth in his slightly addled mind. He couldn’t judge the situation before he knew it. “But how?” he asked. “What happened?”

“Look, could you—” Stanley grimaced. “I just need to know that you’re okay first. Can you move? Does it hurt? You were out for a bit, and I mean, I knew you wouldn’t die, but—”

“How long?”

“Over four hours.”

Ford winced. That meant—

“Bill wasn’t here for most of it,” Stanley added, as if reading his thoughts. “You were just lying there like a dead fish, so don’t blame me for worrying. Ya said you were numb – how bad is it?”

“It’s fine,” Ford replied almost automatically, before taking a moment to try to actually answer the question. He pulled his heavy legs up towards him, putting his hands on his knees and tapping his fingers experimentally, then tried pinching the back of his hand. “I can move adequately,” he decided. “It’s already wearing off. I could probably stand and walk if I have to.” He did hope he would be able to wait a few more minutes, at least, but he would probably be able to force it.

“What about pain?”

He shook his head. “Not much, at least not at the moment. I assume it’s a side-effect of the numbness.” He reached for the hole in his clothes where the vaguely aching blaster wound was located, only to finally become conscious of the fact that his sweatervest was missing. In fact, while the shirt was still there and still closed, it was unbuttoned.

 _No_. He stopped breathing. He might has well have been completely naked, exposed, vulnerable – he knew what was under there. So, it seemed, did Stanley.

He must have given Stanley some kind of _look_. “I’m not gonna apologize for tending your wounds, Poindexter.”

That was reasonable. Logical, even. It was still unacceptable. He felt himself starting to hyperventilate. “I didn’t ask you to!”

“No, you were busy being unconscious and comatose or whatever!”

“I didn’t want you to _see_ that!”

“Yeah, I know! That was pretty clear last night when ya were all ‘I’m fine’ and ‘He didn’t hurt me’ and I tried to trust you like some kinda idiot!”

“You should have minded your own business!”

“You didn’t even clean it, Stanford! Yeah, I got that you didn’t want anyone to see it, but hell, you could have at least _taken care of it_.”

“There was no point!” Yes, there was a point in making sure he was as physically uncompromised as possible, but this wasn’t going to kill him, and he didn’t need the further humiliation. He could feel his own fists clench around the fabric of his shirt, tightening around the buttons, and why was it so hard to get enough air?

“Stanford.” Stanley reached out to touch him, but pulled away when Ford flinched. “Breathe, okay?” He continued. “Just – look. It’s just a bunch of scratches, who cares about the shapes? All I did was to clean it up.”

Now that he was aware of it, Stanford could feel the outlines of gauze underneath the shirt. “It’s fine,” he wheezed, chest tightening painfully into something he wouldn’t allow to be a sob. “You shouldn’t have bothered.”

“Ford, breathe!”

He couldn’t stand it. He pulled his legs up closer, wrapping his arms around them, and leaned his forehead against his knees as if trying ineffectively to hide. Of course it didn’t help, but he just needed a moment’s respite. “You know the truth,” he gasped, barely a whisper. “He owns me. I sold myself to him. I was a fool, and now—”

“Shut it.” Stanley voice was soft but tight. “He doesn’t own you. That’s _sick_.”

“Possession means ownership. It’s—it’s in the definition, Stanley.”

“Well, I don’t care! It’s bullshit! What did you think would happen if you told me he scratched you up? Think I’d give you up for a lost cause? Think I’d shrug and hand you over to him just because he tried to – what, brand you?”

Ford flinched again. _Stanley screaming while a literal brand burned into his shoulder—_

“You’re not that dumb.” Stanley continued. “And I’m not that dumb either.”

“No, but—” Ford couldn’t find the right words. His attempt at a deep breath broke off into another shudder. He knew it wasn’t a matter of unintelligence. It was a matter of foolishness and the consequences thereof. Ford was trying to atone for his mistake, but he didn’t need Bill’s reminder of the impossibility of that task carved on his own skin. He swallowed, renewing the efforts to breathe properly. In and out. It shouldn’t be difficult.

“Ya know,” Stanley said after a while, “I’m making a list of all the reasons to punch this bastard out of existence, and ya gotta tell me if something like this happens so I can fill it up.”

Ford pressed his forehead harder against his knees and trembled once, not sure himself if it was a chortle or a suppressed sob, possibly both. In either case he was able to relax his arms slightly, take a deeper breath. “You can’t punch a demon out of existence, knucklehead,” he muttered.

“You don’t know that, genius.” The way he said ‘genius’ seemed to carry the opposite of the actual meaning, but Ford didn’t have it in him to argue that point. He would appreciate being wrong. Actually, if punching was an option—he would appreciate being able to punch Bill himself.

But no, he needed to keep his brains with him – that was all he had. He forced himself to uncurl his back, flexing his hands in his lap a couple of times. Deep breaths. It was all irrelevant when looking at the large picture. It didn’t matter. Just a few triangular scars. Ignore them. They were nothing when the fate of the world was at stake – and he still didn’t know what had just happened.

“You okay?” Stanley asked after a few moments of silence.

“Yes,” Ford said weakly, glancing at Stanley’s concerned face. “Of course I am.”

Besides, pain was starting to seep back in. The wound in his side was throbbing increasingly with every heartbeat, but it had obviously been bandaged, and so had a lot of the cuts. They stung, similar to how it had felt when they were new – not surprising, if Stanley had tried to clean them so long after the fact. He decided to button up the shirt and accept the bandaging sight unseen.

“Looks like the numbness is going away, too,” Stanley commented as Ford worked on the buttons.

Ford nodded with a small sigh. His fingers may be clumsier than normal, but they were completely usable.

“That’s good. Got any idea what it was? Some kinda tranquilizer in the blast?”

Ford seemed to remember Bill calling it a sedative. All things considered, that was likely more or less correct. “That, or perhaps a strong anesthetic. Given the design of the security drones, I’m assuming they’d only carry non-lethal weaponry.”

“Yeah.”

Ford ran a hand through his hair. “You still haven’t told me what happened. I don’t believe Bill would simply leave when you asked him to, not when the rift was this close and—” He winced, finally thinking far enough ahead to realize what _should_ have happened. “Stanley. Why am I still alive?”

“Oh boy,” Stanley muttered.

“Just—just tell me what happened.”

Stanley rubbed the back of his head. “Well,” he said slowly, choosing his words. Apparently Bill had claimed that Ford had been dying from his injuries, promised to heal him if he was handed the rift and let into this world, and counted on Stanley’s irrational determination to keep Ford alive at any cost.

“But you didn’t listen,” Ford said, partly to reassure himself.

“Nope.” Stanley glanced down at the floor with a sad grimace. “Pretty sure that’s one thing you’d never have forgiven me for even if he _had_ saved your life. Which he probably wouldn’t have.” He looked up again with a grin. “Besides, I figured he was full of shit from beginning to end, so I called his bluff.”

Full of shit from beginning to end. That was an apt description of Bill, and it was somehow gratifying to hear Stanley describe him as such. “And that made him leave?”

“Well. I might have held the memory gun to his face and told him we had nothing to lose if you _were_ dying.”

Ford wanted to appreciate the mental image, but _no_. That was worse than he’d assumed. He already knew Stanley had broken his promise to use the weapon, seeing as Ford was still alive and still in possession of all his mental facilities, but having it spelled out in such an unapologetic manner made something inside him clench up. “You mean you had him at gunpoint and you _didn’t fire_?”

“Yeah. See, firing that gun at you and him would’ve been pretty much defeating the purpose. Which was to save you.”

“No, it wasn’t! The purpose was to defeat Bill!”

“Believe me, I wish! He’s an ass. But I wasn’t gonna erase your mind if just threatening to do it would get him to leave us alone.”

“For now! He’s still out there, and he’s going to come back! Because you declined to finish him when you had the opportunity!” Ford found himself shouting. “I told you it would have been a fair price to pay – it’s my fault he’s here in the first place! And you promised! I thought I could—”

“Stanford, listen to me!” Stanley raised his voice to match Ford’s. “He wasn’t really threatening the rift at that point! I had it under control. I know I’m a screw-up, but sometimes I like to think I do something right, and—” He took a deep breath. “You saved my life right before then. You really think I’d be able to return the favor by _killing_ you?”

They were both silent for several heartbeats.

Eventually Ford shook his head. “No, you wouldn’t.” He leaned back against the wall behind him, shoulders slumping. He _had_ saved Stanley’s life. When that drone had been about to disappear with Stanley forever—Ford hadn’t even thought about it. Saving him had been the obvious – the only possible – thing to do. “Of course you wouldn’t. And I suppose I get where you’re coming from.” He sighed, trying to relax again.

Stan made a small smile, then cleared his throat. “Right. Good. Because, see – there’s no apocalypse _and_ you’re still alive. Win-win scenario, just means we gotta keep smacking him down.”

Ford nodded. He didn’t have to approve, but the fact remained that the disaster had been averted for now, and Ford would still be able to fight another day. In fact, he’d still be able to play boardgames with Dipper. Somehow that one thought made his eyes itch.

“But really,” he told Stanley, “There was no favor for you to return. You’d already saved my life once, from the portal.”

Stanley flashed a grin. “Yeah, you’re right. That means I’m still in the lead.”

Ford blinked, confused. “Is it a competition, now?”

“If it can keep both of us alive, you bet it is!”

That was… certainly a way of putting it. “You’re never going to grow up, are you?”

“Nope. I still have ice cream for dinner.”

Ford chuckled slightly, releasing some of the remaining tension. “Good to know.”

“Besides,” Stanley added, “I found that glue for ya. This is it, right?” He fished out a particular package from a pocket and handed it to Ford. “It was right at the foot of the pile – found it by accident when I was wrapping you up. So mission accomplished and we’re all good.”

Ford’s eyes widened, studying the – undeniably correct – design. Part of him was surprised that Stanley had listened to his explanation enough to memorize the pattern, but perhaps he shouldn’t be. “That’s—well done, Stanley,” he said.

“Mm-hm.”

“Let’s get this over with.” Having the adhesive in his hand was an incredible relief – the proof that this ill-fortuned expedition had not been for nothing – but there was no point in delaying its use. “The sooner we do what we can to seal the rift, the better and safer for everyone.”

“Sure, if you’re up for it,” Stanley agreed, then smiled wryly as he dispatched the hard, metallic briefcase from the duffelbag. “Just for the record, how likely is this sci-fi glue to kill us?”

Ford shrugged. “Not as likely as the rift, obviously! It’s very potent, but as long as you don’t get it on your skin or otherwise put it somewhere you don’t want to glue, it’s harmless.”

“Of course.” Stanley unlocked the case and put the jar with the rift on the floor between them.

The first thing Ford needed to do was to test a hypothesis. Carefully removing the lid from the jar, he took a deep breath and – pausing for a moment to will his hands not to shake – poured a drop of the thick transparent liquid inside.

Unfortunately, the drop disappeared tracelessly upon contact with the black void of the rift. Ford huffed in disappointment, but gave it up, reattaching the lid.

“Did you seriously just try to glue together a crack in space and time like it was a crack in a wooden board?” Stanley sounded somewhat more amused than the situation warranted.

“Not exactly,” Ford said. “If it had been possible, sealing the rift inside a solid clump of the alien adhesive would have made it near untouchable, but this result isn’t surprising in the least. The rift is too volatile to pour a lot of material at it at once, and obviously a drop small enough to avoid disrupting it will simply be swallowed up.”

The alternative was to seal the fragile jar in something more sturdy. Ford poured some of the adhesive on the inside of the briefcase, then laid the jar down exactly where it had been before, attaching it firmly to the case. Arranging the padding around it, he poured a layer of glue on the exposed side of the jar, then a thin coating along the opening of the case for good measure. Slowly, carefully, he closed the briefcase until it clicked shut, the top half of it just touching the glue on the jar inside.

“There.” Ford exhaled. “This briefcase won’t open again without some serious violence.”

Leaning his head back against the wall with the briefcase in his lap, he felt – better, he supposed. Not safe – just because no one would be able to break the rift with their bare hands didn’t mean it didn’t still exist as a threat – but better.

“I take it I’m not getting that briefcase back,” Stanley said.

“No.” He had, frankly, not considered that aspect. “It’s for the greater good.”

“You’re a scoundrel,” Stanley remarked, but this was the kind of situation where he probably didn’t mean it as such. “High Six?”

Ford smiled and slapped Stanley’s hand hard enough to feel the sting through the lingering numbness.

What remained was a content, companionable silence, only broken by Ford slowly tapping six fingers against the side of the briefcase. Stanley stretched his arms and rolled hs shoulders, but didn’t rise.

Should-haves and would-haves were whirling in Ford’s mind, but he pushed them down. The rift was as secure as he could make it. As long as the case wasn’t stolen and broken into, it was fine. The thought made him shudder, but nevertheless, right now there wasn’t much else he could do. He blinked hard, then rubbed his eyes under his glasses.

And Stanley was—despite everything, Stanley was here. And despite everything, Stanford was happy about that.

He took deep breath. “Stanley?”

“Yeah?”

“Was it really an accident?”

He could sense Stanley tense beside him. “What?”

“My science project.”

Stanley was quiet for a few seconds, almost as if he wasn’t going to answer, like he’d rather leave the wordless silence stretching on forever. But then he did, voice unusually subdued. “I didn’t mean to break it.” He sighed softly. “But I was young, and dumb, and y’know, scared. Thought I was gonna lose you forever.” He crossed his arms and leaned forward slightly, not looking at Ford next to him.

“Shouldn’ta been wandering school after hours to begin with. The way I remember it, I saw your machine, and I just kinda—I wanted something to blame. So I told it it was all its fault and I banged my fist on the table—” He banged a fist on the UFO floor for emphasis, “—and that made this little hatch thing pop out. I swear I didn’t mean to break anything. Never wanted to ruin your future, I just wanted to you to—to not want to leave me behind, I guess. And, I mean, at the time I didn’t even think it was broken. It was still working, and I put the hatch back! Didn’t realize something was wrong until you got back the next day and told me I’d sabotaged it.”

Ford needed a moment to process the story. It certainly wasn’t what he’d been picturing for all these years. He’d pictured deliberate sabotage – Stanley’s excuse had seemed ridiculous, seeing how there was no way to ‘accidentally’ be at school at night and ‘accidentally’ break just the one project that meant something. But lashing out without thinking and hoping for the best? Knowing Stanley as a teenager, it was a lot more plausible than malicious intent. Stanley had been upset – more upset than Ford had realized until it was too late – but perhaps he hadn’t actually been upset enough for deliberate betrayal. Not that it sounded entirely like an accident either. More like – foolishness. A mistake with unforeseen consequences.

Ford had been furious, and in a way he still was, a bit. He had every right to be. Stanley’s attitude at the time had seemed to cement that he truly didn’t care about Ford’s academic prospects at all. He hadn’t even apologized, just jumped straight to the childish dream of sailing while Ford’s future was crumbling before his eyes. Of course, then their dad had come in, and that was that.

“Say something, Sixer.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Ford blurted. “I could have checked it before the presentation!”

“Yeah, that’s a question I’ve been asking myself for a few decades now. The only answer is – I was dumb. I thought there was no problem, and I didn’t want you to get mad at me. That plan sure backfired.” He paused. “I’ll say it again. I’m sorry.”

“Yes.” Ford took a deep breath. “I suppose it was a long time ago. I just—I was furious with you for a long time. I really wanted to go to West Coast Tech, and it’s not as if I intended for us to never meet again once I got there! You could have moved with me, if that’s what you wanted.”

Stanley snorted. “Really.”

“Yes! We could have worked it out if you hadn’t—” He stopped. “What I mean to say is that my life wasn’t ruined by that incident. Yours was. I did go to college, even though it was a crappy one, and I did get my degrees and my grants. And in the long run, I guess my own mistakes have been—” He swallowed. “I don’t even have the excuse of being a teenager.”

“Huh.” Stanley paused. “Well, I didn’t have that excuse when I pushed you into that goddamn portal of yours. By the way, I’m sorry for that, too.”

Ford still wasn’t sure how he felt about that. Although he knew he hadn’t been thinking clearly after so many sleepless nights and days, the anger at Stanley’s refusal to listen, the guilt of kicking him into that red-hot panel, and the terror of slowly falling backwards into a nightmare were all still fresh in his mind. Being stranded thirty years into the future where Stanley was old enough to be his father was discomforting to say the least, but there was no way he could rationally believe that one had been in any way deliberate on Stanley’s part. “You didn’t know about the gravitational effects,” he said. “Besides, the only way it could have been so easily activated is if Bill had prepared it while I failed to stay awake. I should have been more resolved to disassemble the portal before it got to that point.”

Stanley’s only reply was a weak huff.

Ford looked down at his hands in his lap. “Actually, I—” He needed another deep breath. This was more difficult that it should have been. “I want to apologize, too. Not for being angry, but I—I assumed you were fine. Or rather, I convinced myself that you were. After you left—after dad kicked you out. I should have been able to surmise that you weren’t, but I didn’t let myself think too hard on it. I’m sorry for that. I should have tried to contact you earlier.” He bit his lower lip, then added, “I missed you.”

Stanley was silent for a few moments. “Y’know,” he said slowly, “I tried to call you a few times. Got as far as hearing your voice picking up the phone, then I chickened out and hung up. Stupid, huh?”

“That was you?” There had been a few weird prank calls after he’d moved to Gravity Falls, but Ford had blamed it on local children, or even telephonally inclined cryptids.

“Uh-huh.”

“I had no idea.” Ford grimaced. There was more he wanted to say, but he was starting to feel hollow inside. Lost. If this conversation had happened thirty years ago, with the dirty, ragged 30-year-old that was still his _twin_ —

But it didn’t. It happened now, after Stanley and the rest of the world had moved on without Ford, and even if he could survive, he wasn’t sure he had a place in it anymore.

Stanley straightened his shoulders before the silence could get too awkward. “Tell me when you think you can walk without falling over so we can go home. I did call Soos and tell him we’re running late, but they’re probably waiting for us. And I’m hungry. You’re hungry, too.”

“I’m not—”

“Yeah, you are. Or you will be once ya get up and moving again.”

Ford shook his head. “Fine.” He’d been unconscious for quite a while. For anyone with a normal meal schedule, it was probably getting close to dinner time, and they certainly hadn’t had lunch. It still seemed like an unnecessary fuss, but—

“Wait.” He just realized what Stanley had said. “You called Soos. From here. Inside an underground UFO wreck. Would you mind explaining _how_?”

Stanley blinked at him, then looked like he was suppressing a laugh. “I’m a man of mystery.”

“You have futuristic communicator of some kind, don’t you?” That was the only explanation. “I think Wendy had one yesterday, too. And perhaps Mabel?”

“As a matter of fact, I borrowed Mabel’s.” Stanley grinned and produced a small hot-pink piece of metal from the bag with a flourish. “Behold the future, Poindexter! This is known as a _smart phone_.”

Ford touched it gingerly, intrigued in spite of himself. “Is it intelligent?”

 


End file.
